o 


THE   CAGE 


THE     CAGE 


BY 

HAROLD  BEGBIE 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  PRIEST." 
"THE  VIGIL."  ETC. 


HODDER  &  STOUGHTON 

NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


//  may  be  compared  to  a  cage :  the  birds  without  despaire 

to  get  in,  and  those  within  detpaire  to  get  out. 

MONTAICNI. 


COPYRIGHT,  1911,  BY  GEORGE  H.  DORA*  COMPANY 


PREFACE 


MOST  decent  people  will  be  disposed  to  agree  with 
me,  whatever  their  religious  opinions,  and  whatever  their 
experience  of  married  life,  that  if  every  woman  in  Chris- 
tendom behaved  after  the  fashion  of  Mme.  Bovary  or 
Mme.  Anna  Karenina,  it  would  soon  be  exceedingly  ill 
with  the  world. 

But  few  people  who  discuss  this  question  of  marriage 
perceive  that,  unless  religion  is  acknowledged  as  the 
foundation  of  human  life,  a  great  many  more  reasons  can 
be  found  why  every  woman  should  seek  her  own  individ- 
ual pleasure,  and  behave,  if  she  so  wish  it,  in  the  manner 
of  the  two  ladies  mentioned  above,  than  logical  reasons 
can  be  manufactured  to  prove  why  she  should  suffer  a 
cold  unselfishness  and  endure  all  the  thousand  wounding 
restraints  of  a  virtue  which  merely  strangles  and  suffo- 
cates the  human  nature. 

At  the  end  of  her  life,  so  full  of  tragic  mutiny  against 
society,  and  so  desolate  with  the  intensity  of  its  own  pas- 
sionate and  unyielding  individualism,  Mme.  Sand  wrote 
in  her  Journal:  "The  cure  for  us  is  far  more  simple 
than  we  will  believe.  All  the  better  natures  amongst  us 
see  it  and  feel  it.  It  is  a  good  direction  given  by  ourselves 
to  our  hearts  and  consciences." 

When  a  man  has  made  up  his  heart  and  conscience 
(the  two  must  go  in  step  together,  or  no  pace  and  no  road 
will  ever  be  comfortable)  how  to  answer  Life's  question, 
"Whither  goest  thou?" — he  will  find  little  difficulty  in  an- 
swering the  subsidiary  questions  of  society  with  which 
he  is  challenged  on  his  way.  But  until  he  is  conscious  of 


2229172 


direction,  each  particular  little  question  will  assume  the 
magnitude  of  the  question  itself,  and  he  will  be  as  puzzled 
in  his  intellect,  as  he  is  troubled  and  restless  in  his  heart 
all  the  long  way  of  his  journey. 

"If  a  man,"  says  Coleridge,  "is  not  rising  upwards  to 
be  an  angel,  he  is  sinking  downwards  to  be  a  devil.  He 
cannot  stop  at  the  beast.  The  most  savage  men  are  not 
beasts :  they  are  worse,  a  great  deal  worse." 

"The  cure  for  us  is  far  more  simple  than  we  will  be- 
lieve. It  is  a  good  direction  given  by  ourselves  to  our 
hearts  and  consciences." 

Social  questions  are  only  difficult  and  dangerous 
while  the  one  central  and  eternal  Question  of  Life, 
Whither  goest  thou  ?  remains  unanswered. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     HERITAGE  1 

II.    THE  Two  DESTINIES _ 30 

III.  THE  BIRD  WITHIN 59 

IV.  BORHAVEN    _ -   66 

V.    CREEK  COTTAGE „_ 74 

VI.    CURIOSITY    - —  76 

VII.     MR.  ALDRICH  MAKES  A  MOVE „ _ ~  79 

VIII.    THE  "SAND  WASP"  92 

IX.  1857  _.. 100 

X.  FLIGHTING  _ _ _ 112 

XL    NAPIER'S  RELIGION 128 

XII.    A  DOOR  Is  CLOSED „ _ -.138 

XIII.  ANOTHER  Is  OPENED 151 

XIV.  THE  Two  LETTERS _ 163 

XV.    THE  UNEXPECTED  _ 168 

XVI.    A  FALLING  TIDE  191 

XVII.    ON  THE  GROUND  OF  HONOUR _ _213 

XVIII.     IN   EARNEST  _ _....229 

XIX.    THE  PROMISE  _ „ 244 

XX.    THE  "SAND  WASP"  PUTS  TO  SEA 254 

XXI.    THE  UNCONQUERABLE  HOPE  261 

XXII.    BACK  TO  EARTH 286 

XXIII.  A  SECOND  MARRIAGE  ...                              ....302 


"WHERE  WOMEN  ARB  HONOURED  THE  DIVINITIES  ARE 
COMPLACENT  ;  WHERE  THEY  ARE  DESPISED,  IT  IS  USELESS  TO 
PRAY  TO  GOD." 


CHAPTER   I 

HERITAGE 

THE  name  of  Robert  Campbell  Ainslie  is  still 
remembered  in  Edinburgh.  Anecdotes  concerning 
him  and  laconicisms  attributed  to  his  lips  are  almost 
as  numerous,  and  now  are  nearly  as  tedious,  as  those 
which  embalm  for  posterity  the  memories  of  historical 
personages.  Many  sayings  are  doubtless  ascribed  to 
him  which  he  never  uttered.  He  was  one  of  those 
rough  and  honest  personalities  who  make  an  iron 
impression  on  a  conventional  generation,  and  whose 
dust  mingles  with  the  earth  only  that  their  impressive 
ghosts  may  stalk  the  ways  of  men  in  the  embroideries 
of  Aberglaube.  For  the  historian,  he  was  a  fashion- 
able physician  with  common-sense  notions  on  the 
subject  of  diet,  great  honesty  and  courage,  and  a 
penetrating  knowledge  of  human  nature. 

His  father  was  a  second-hand  bookseller  in  St. 
Giles's  Ward,  who  had  enjoyed  the  patronage  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott.  The  tall  and  narrow  shop  is  still 
standing ;  it  is  still  consecrated  to  the  rags  and  bones 
of  literature :  a  student  of  the  University  is  perhaps 
at  this  moment  running -his  hand  along  the  dusty 
shelves  in  quest  of  some  second-hand  text-book  which 
was  grubbed  and  dog's-eared  by  contemporaries  of 

B  I 


2  THE   CAGE 

Robert  Ainslie.  In  this  obscure  sHop,  surrounded 
by  the  squalor  of  a  great  city  and  stimulated  by  the 
narrow  circumstances  of  his  own  home,  Ainslie 
studied,  meditated,  formed  his  judgments,  and  grew 
to  manhood.  Every  morning,  when  he  hurried  to 
school  with  his  long-reaching  stride  and  a  strapped 
bundle  of  books  under  his  arm,  he  saw  a  multitude 
of  barefoot,  ragged,  ill-nourished  and  neglected 
children  swarming  over  the  pavements  and  shivering 
in  little  confraternities  of  suffering  at  the  entry  to 
every  pestilential  close  on  the  way.  Every  night, 
when  he  bent  over  his  books  in  a  miserable  garret  at 
the  top  of  the  tall  house,  he  heard  through  his  hands, 
which  were  pressed  tight  over  his  ears,  the  drunken 
laughter  and  the  screaming  cries  of  men  and  women 
staggering  and  fighting  in  the  ill-lit  underworld  of 
Edinburgh  beneath  his  window.  Perhaps  these 
things  influenced  his  character;  for  he  was  one  of 
those  rare  people  who  not  only  observe,  but  appre- 
hend what  they  observe.  He  knew  that  the  men  and 
women  who  were  drunken  at  night  were  the  fathers 
and  mothers  of  the  children  who  shivered  and  starved 
in  the  morning,  and  that  the  children  were  Posterity. 
He  used  to  regard  the  bugle  of  the  Highlanders  ring- 
ing "Lights  out "  from  the  Castle  as  a  warning  to  the 
wicked  city.  "One  night,"  he  said  to  his  younger 
brothers,  "it  will  be  the  Last  Trump,  and  Hell  will 
get  a  bellyful  out  of  Edinburgh." 

It  was  indignation  with  the  follies  and  perversities 
of  mankind  which  led  him  to  become  a  doctor. 
"People  don't  interest  me,"  he  used  to  say,  "but  their 


HERITAGE  3 

machinery  does;  I  cannot  bear  the  sight  of  a  cheated 
body."  The  only  absolutism  in  a  period  of  demo- 
cracy is  that  of  a  physician,  and  this  strong-willed 
man,  who  was  a  scientific  and  not  a  sentimental 
humanitarian,  became  a  doctor  in  order  that  he  might 
rule  men.  "My  kingdom,"  he  said,  "is  posterity." 

His  practice  began  with  the  poor,  and  ended  with 
the  rich.  At  the  outset  of  his  career,  when  he  him- 
self hungered  among  the  hungry,  his  prescriptions 
were  mostly  drafts  on  charitable  societies  for  meat  and 
bread.  "Those  whom  you  call  the  poor,"  he  once 
said  to  a  politician,  "I  call  the  hungry."  He  attri- 
buted the  brutalities  of  the  poor  to  ill-nourished 
bodies,  and  the  vices  of  the  rich  to  over-nourished 
bodies.  He  declared  diet  to  be  the  supreme  question 
of  the  human  race.  "Dr.  Ainslie,"  asked  a  wealthy 
merchant,  troubled  in  his  conscience  by  the  employ- 
ment of  a  physician  who  did  not  support  the  Free 
Kirk,  "do  you,  sir,  or  do  you  not,  believe  in  a  devil  ?  " 

"No,"  he  answered,  "I  believe  in  three  devils,  a 
trinity  of  devils;  one  for  each  end  of  the  stick,  and 
one  for  the  middle;  the  devil  of  the  poor  is  starva- 
tion, the  devil  of  the  rich  is  gluttony,  and  the  devil 
of  everybody  is  ignorance."  He  earned  little  or  no- 
thing for  feeding  the  poor;  the  rich  paid  him  extra- 
vagant fees  for  taking  away  their  dinners.  "I  began 
my  practice,"  he  used  to  say,  "by  filling  the  hungry 
with  good  things ;  I  end  it  by  sending  the  rich  empty 
away."  He  never  cultivated  the  bedside  manner  of 
a  fashionable  physician.  "What  do  you  prescribe 
for  me  ?  "  he  was  once  asked  by  a  wealthy  and  neurotic 

B  2 


4  THE   CAGE 

woman.  "A  'scrubbing  brush,"  was  his  answer.  To 
one  of  his  wealthiest  patients,  a  Calvinist  who  sought 
to  convert  him,  he  said  indignantly,  "Why,  man, 
your  God  is  my  devil." 

His  vogue  did  not  come  till  he  was  at  middle  age. 
At  that  time  people  said  of  him  that  he  had  the  body 
of  Bismarck,  the  face  of  Moltke,  and  the  soul  of 
Cromwell.  His  appearance  was  certainly  handsome 
and  impressive.  His  heavy  and  austere  countenance 
bore  the  marks  of  endurance  rather  than  the  signs  of 
effort  and  struggle.  He  had  helped  all  his  brothers 
to  make  a  start  in  the  world,  and  had  buried  his 
father  and  mother  before  his  fortunes  took  their  turn. 
The  struggle  of  his  early  life  accounted  for  the  two 
chief  fears  which  governed  his  character,  the  fear  of 
poverty  and  the  fear  of  wealth.  He  felt  the  terrible 
injustice  of  the  one,  and  the  frightful  responsibility 
of  the  other.  These  two  fears  became  more  forceful 
the  more  he  succeeded.  He  earned  money  only  to 
give  it  away.  He  practised  the  severest  economies. 
He  regarded  the  least  of  luxuries  in  the  light  of  a  vice. 

Ainslie  fell  in  love  but  once  in  his  life.  This  was 
with  an  old  English  soldier,  a  general  in  the  Madras 
Army,  who,  with  his  wife  and  daughter,  came  to 
Edinburgh,  his  body  shattered  by  wounds,  and  tor- 
tured by  fever,  to  put  himself  under  Ainslie's  care. 
The  two  men  grew  fond  of  each  other.  The  old 
bearded  soldier  was  a  hero  of  what  Heine  called  the 
mattress-grave.  In  spite  of  great  physical  pain  and 
the  misery  of  being  nailed  to  a  bed,  he  was  radiant 
with  cheerfulness,  easily  provoked  to  humour,  and 


HERITAGE  5 

always  grateful  for  kindness.  The  man  believed  in 
God.  Ainslie  would  sit  for  sometimes  a  whole  hour 
on  the  edge  of  the  old  warrior's  bed,  regarding  affec- 
tionately the  wasting,  ivory-coloured  face  with  its 
long  greying  beard,  and  listening  with  a  profound 
sympathy  to  the  faint  voice  of  this  once  vigorous 
commander  of  artillery.  They  exchanged  anecdotes. 
They  quoted  Burns  against  each  other.  They  laughed 
at  the  new  theory  of  microbes.  They  discussed  the 
politics  of  the  day.  They  smiled  together,  laughed 
together,  shook  hands  with  a  clasp  that  meant  affec- 
tion. The  general  loved  the  doctor — his  large  eyes 
shone  and  his  face  became  illumined  with  pleasure 
at  Ainslie's  entrance.  "The  sight  of  you  does  me 
good !  "  he  used  to  say,  smiling.  And  the  doctor 
loved  the  old  soldier.  "General  Dobson,"  he  said, 
"you've  taught  me  the  pleasure  of  a  chat."  During 
their  intimacy  came  the  failure  of  the  Oriental  Bank, 
ruining  General  Dobson.  Ainslie  kept  the  news 
from  him.  He  provided  Mrs.  Dobson  with  money, 
and  bound  her  to  secrecy.  The  general  died  without 
knowing  of  his  ruin.  After  his  death,  Ainslie  married 
the  daughter. 

He  explained  to  this  lady,  a  capable,  vigorous,  and 
rather  amusing  woman  of  the  world,  who  was  then 
thirty  years  of  age,  and  to  her  mother,  his  convictions 
concerning  money.  He  made  it  plain  to  his  future 
wife  that  she  was  marrying  a  poor  man,  and  one  who 
intended,  God  helping  him,  to  remain  poor  all  the 
days  of  his  life.  "I  have  no  wish  to  be  rich,"  she 
said ;  "  only  comfortable."  "  While  people  are  hungry 


6  THE   CAGE 

no  one  can  be  comfortable,"  he  answered.  "That  is 
very  true,"  said  the  lady,  feeling  suddenly  cold,  but 
quickly  recovering  her  self-confidence. 

At  the  age  of  fifty-three,  Dr.  Ainslie  became  the 
father  of  a  daughter,  who  was  named  Anne,  after  her 
English  grandmother,  the  old  and  diminutive  Mrs. 
Dobson,  who  now  formed  a  member  of  the  house- 
hold. The  child  brought  happiness  to  the  doctor's 
heart.  He  had  the  tenderness  of  all  stern  and  lofty 
souls  for  little  children.  His  own  child  came  close 
to  his  soul,  like  a  whisper  from  heaven,  like  a  touch 
from  God.  It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  the  stern 
and  bluff  physician  of  the  consulting-room  was  the 
same  man  as  the  father  carrying  his  child  in  his  arms 
and  bending  upon  it  looks  and  smiles  of  the  most 
ingratiating  gentleness.  It  was  this  child  who  made 
Robert  Ainslie  an  open  and  avowed  enemy  of  priestly 
authority.  He  refused  to  have  the  infant  baptized. 
"If  God  has  set  a  curse  upon  my  child,"  he  declared, 
"I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  Him.  Such  a  God  is 
a  Monster."  A  righteous  man's  defiance  of  the  Al- 
mighty may  be  a  matter  for  rebuke,  it  is  not  con- 
temptible. But  Ainslie  did  not  think  that  he  defied 
God. 

Mrs.  Ainslie,  who  was  becoming  a  figure  in  Edin- 
burgh society  on  account  of  her  husband's  fame, 
watched  the  tenderness  of  the  doctor  towards  their 
child  with  a  secret  hope.  She  was  sick  to  death  of 
the  mean  circumstances  which  governed  her  home. 
Her  vigorous  efforts  to  break  Ainslie  of  parsimonious 
habits  had  quite  failed.  She  hoped  to  stop  the 


HERITAGE  7 

§fream  of  her  husband's  charities  with  the  hands  of 
her  child.  With  considerable  care,  for  the  doctor 
was  not  a  man  to  be  duped,  she  spoke  about  the 
future  of  the  little  Anne.  She  constantly  referred  in 
his  hearing  to  her  own  childhood,  to  the  refinements 
of  her  home,  to  the  educating  splendours  of  her  youth' 
when  her  father  commanded  the  Madras  Artillery 
and  reigned  at  St.  Thomas's  Mount.  "A  gloomy 
home  darkens  the  minds  of  children,"  she  said  to 
one  of  her  friends,  "it  makes  them  long  for  fool- 
ish pleasures  and  dangerous  vanities;  don't  you 
think  that  is  true?"  "It  depends  on  the  mother," 
interrupted  the  doctor,  "and  sometimes  on  the 
father." 

The  man  whose  personality  was  easily  the  chief 
force  in  the  Edinburgh  of  that  day,  and  whose  fame 
as  a  consulting  physician  spread  into  foreign 
countries,  lived  in  one  of  the  grey  houses  in  Darna- 
way  Street,  wore  threadbare  broadcloth  and  a  shabby 
hat,  kept  no  carriage,  employed  but  two  servants,  and 
allowed  his  wife  fifty  pounds  a  year  for  the  clothes 
of  herself,  her  mother  and  her  child.  This  little 
family  had  porridge  for  breakfast,  and  dined  in  the 
middle  of  the  day.  The  linen  was  coarse,  the  furni- 
ture was  solid  and  plain ;  the  walls  of  the  rooms  were 
distempered.  To  a  woman  with  social  ambitions, 
this  home  was  like  a  prison.  To  a  woman  of  taste, 
as  can  easily  be  imagined,  it  was  horribly  ugly.  To 
the  doctor,  who  hurried  up  the  narrow  stairs  to  his 
child's  nursery,  it  was  an  altar. 

At  the  height  of  his  fame,  and  when  every  hour  of 


8  THE   CAGE 

his  time  was  engaged,  Ainslie  was  still  the  personal 
friend  and  comforter  of  the  poor.  His  handsome 
figure  and  austere  countenance,  to  the  end  of  his  days, 
were  familiar  in  St.  Giles's  Ward.  He  helped  the 
sons  of  poor  people  in  their  education,  assisted 
families  to  emigrate,  provided  food  for  the  starv- 
ing, clothes  for  the  naked,  work  for  the  unemployed, 
and  homes  for  the  homeless.  He  was  a  menace  to 
owners  of  insanitary  properties,  a  terror  to  sellers  of 
adulterated  food,  and  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  civic 
authority.  No  private  man  was  ever  so  effective  a 
politician.  Few  men  have  ever  exercised  so  generous 
a  liberality.  It  is  said  of  him  that  when  his  income 
stood  at  twelve  thousand  pounds  a  year,  he  was 
living  on  five  hundred  and,  beyond  insurance,  saving 
not  a  penny. 

Dr.  Ainslie,  in  spite  of  his  tenderness  for  Anne 
and  his  sympathy  with  the  sufferings  of  the  poor,  did 
not  permit  himself  the  luxury  of  emotion.  He  was 
perhaps  too  busy  a  man  to  be  religious.  He  did  not 
dream.  He  neither  regarded  the  flowers  at  his  feet 
nor  contemplated  the  stars  over  his  head.  His 
universe  was  the  body  of  man.  Materialism  could 
boast  in  him  of  a  man  who  was  religious  without  a 
religion.  If  he  lacked  that  sweetness  of  nature  and 
that  beautiful  yearning  after  God  which  makes  Victor 
Hugo's  Bishop  Myriel  so  delightful,  so  enchanting 
a  character,  he  yet  possessed  a  more  robust  and  heroic 
hatred  of  injustice,  and  this,  as  we  have  seen,  was 
not  without  its  service  to  humanity.  Religion  in  our 
day  does  not  deny  her  immense  obligation  to  the 


HERITAGE  9 

apostles  of  physical  morality.  Thirty  years  ago  the 
antagonism  between  faith  and  science  was  fiercer  and 
perhaps  more  honest.  Dr.  Ainslie  could  never  wholly 
forget  the  unscrupulous  and  wicked  opposition  which 
science  had  encountered  from  religion.  "Most  of 
the  attacks  upon  science,"  he  once  said,  "have  come 
from  men  wearing  spectacles."  To  a  short-sighted 
minister  who  ventured  to  argue  with  him  on  the 
limitations  of  human  knowledge,  Ainslie  replied, 
"What  are  the  facts?  You  don't  believe  in  miracles. 
You  believe  in  the  oculist." 

One  winter's  afternoon,  in  the  year  1885,  a  note 
was  brought  to  Dr.  Ainslie,  as  he  sat  in  his  consult- 
ing-room at  the  back  of  the  house  with  his  dark  grey 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  face  of  a  gentleman  who  had 
travelled  from  Chicago  to  describe  his  .sufferings  from 
dyspepsia.  The  letter  was  marked  "  Urgent,"  and  the 
servant  said  that  the  messenger  awaited  an  answer. 
Dr.  Ainslie  opened  the  envelope  swiftly  by  means  of 
a  paper-knife,  and  drew  out  a  thin  sheet  of  paper. 
His  heavy  eyebrows  came  together  as  he  read;  then 
a  light  of  illumination  shone  in  his  face;  he  looked 
up  quickly,  and  said  to  the  servant,  "Say  I  will  come 
directly." 

He  rose  from  his  chair  like  a  man  in  a  hurry. 
"  You  crossed  in  a  steamer  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  down 
at  his  patient. 

"Yes." 

"Were  you  sick?" 

"A  little." 


[io  THE   CAGE 

"Wait  for  the  equinox  and  go  back  in  a  sailing 
ship." 

The  waiting-room  was  full  of  patients.  He  opened 
the  door,  and  addressed  the  group,  who  rose  at  his 
entrance.  In  a  sentence  he  announced  that  he  was 
called  away  and  that  he  would  be  absent  for  an  hour. 
He  begged  them  to  excuse  him.  As  he  picked  up 
his  hat  in  the  hall,  the  front  door  opened  and  his 
wife  and  daughter  entered.  The  child,  seven  years 
of  age  at  this  time,  ran  forward  to  her  father  and 
embraced  his  legs,  laughing  up  into  his  face.  "I  am 
in  a  hurry,"  he  said,  and  disengaged  himself. 

He  left  the  house,  and  walking  at  a  great  pace 
made  the  descent  to  Princes  Street,  and  crossing  the 
city  took  his  way  past  Heriot's  Hospital  to  a  small 
cul  de  sac  running  out  of  a  turning  from  Lauriston 
Place.  His  thgughts  were  so  deeply  engaged  by  the 
message  which  had  brought  him  to  this  neighbour- 
hood that  his  wonderful  faculty  of  observation  was 
entirely  unemployed ;  he  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing, 
noticed  nothing.  He  could  hardly  have  told  by  what 
route  he  had  come.  The  message  which  carried  his 
feet  to  this  dingy  locality  had  sent  his  soul  a  journey 
into  the  past. 

Ten  years  ago  he  had  received  a  visit  from  a  well- 
dressed,  boyish  and  soldier-like  young  Englishman 
who  gave  his  name  as  Napier,  and  instantly  disowned 
that  name  when  he  came  into  the  doctor's  presence. 

"I  have  a  matter  of  the  greatest  delicacy  and  im- 
portance to  lay  before  you,  sir,"  he  had  said,  standing 
in  the  lamplight  of  the  doctor's  study.  "I  cannot 


HERITAGE  11 

explain  to  you  all  the  circumstances,  but  I  ask  you 
to  trust  me  and  to  do  what  I  most  earnestly  beg  you 
to  do.  You  are  not  only  a  great  doctor;  you  are  a 
good  man;  that  is  why  I  have  come  to  you." 

The  busy  doctor,  who  had  Wellington's  wholesome 
disgust  for  flattery,  made  a  movement  of  impatience 
with  his  hands.  "Sit  down,"  he  said,  and  pointed 
to  a  chair.  The  walls  of  the  consulting-room  were 
dark  with  books.  Dull  red  curtains  were  drawn 
across  the  windows.  The  floor  was  polished  and 
spread  with  cheap  rugs.  A  gas-stove  burned  in  the 
fire-place  with  a  saucer  of  water  in  front  of  it.  The 
doctor  sat  in  shadow;  the  green-shaded  lamp  threw 
its  light  on  the  delicate,  flushed  face  of  the  visitor. 

"What  do  you  want?"  asked  Ainslie. 

The  young  man  continued  his  story:  "There  is  a 
girl  living  at  this  address  in  the  name  of  Mrs.  Napier, 
who  will  shortly  become  a  mother."  He  reached  for- 
ward and  handed  the  doctor  a  piece  of  paper.  "  I  am 
called  away ;  I  cannot  possibly  remain ;  I  am  anxious 
for  the  mother's  sake  and  for  the  child's  that  she 
should  not  suffer.  If  I  can  leave  matters  in  your 
hands,  I  shall  be  satisfied;  my  conscience  will  be 
lighter,  and  my  heart  will  be  less  miserable.  I  have 
brought  with  me  some  bank-notes,  a  little  over  a 
thousand  pounds,  and  I  ask  you — I  implore  you,  sir, 
to  take  this  money  and  use  it  as  you  think  best  for 
the  mother  and  for  the  child.  Don't,  I  beg  you,  tell 
the  mother  that  I  gave  you  this  money.  Don't  say 
a  single  good  word  for  me.  Say  that  I  sent  you  to 
her,  and  that  is  all.  When  she  is  over  her  trouble 


ia  THE   CAGE 

let  her  think  that  you  yourself  are  helping  her  out 
of  kindness  of  heart.  I  want  her  to  forget  me.  If 
she  hates  me  so  much  the  better." 

"You  mean,  in  plain  language,"  said  the  doctor, 
who  hated  sentimentalism  and  despised  emotion, 
"that  after  ruining  this  poor  girl,  you  are  deserting 
her?" 

"Let  me  remind  you,  sir,"  said  the  young  man, 
"that  you  do  not  know  all  the  circumstances." 

"Only  the  facts,"  retorted  the  busy  man,  beginning 
to  be  irritated. 

The  visitor  did  not  wince.  The  terrible  judgment 
in  the  great  doctor's  eyes  would  perhaps  have  shaken 
an  assassin ;  this  graceful  young  man  remained  im- 
perturbable and  composed.  After  a  moment  he  said 
quietly — 

"  For  God's  sake,  sir,  do  what  I  ask." 

"I'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  replied  the  doctor, 
getting  up.  He  stood  between  the  lamp  and  his 
visitor.  "You  have  broken  a  woman's  heart  and 
ruined  her  life.  You  want  me  to  patch  things  up 
with  a  thousand  pounds.  You're  a  blackguard." 
He  pointed  to  the  door,  and  moved  again  towards 
his  table. 

The  young  man  remained  where  he  was.  He  met 
the  angry  challenge  of  the  doctor's  eyes  with  unflinch- 
ing humility.  "You  are  quite  right.  I  am  a  black- 
guard. That  is  why  I  have  come  to  you." 

"Why  don't  you  marry  this  girl?" 

"I  cannot,  for  her  own  sake." 

"  Are  you  a  married  man  ?  " 


HERITAGE  13 

"No." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  what  you  are.  You  are  a  liar. 
You  can  marry  this  girl.  You  ought  to  marry  her. 
Instead  you're  deserting  her." 

"No." 

"You  said  you  were  going  away?" 

"Yes,  that  is  true." 

"Why  must  you  go?" 

"It  is  against  my  will."  He  paused  a  moment.  "I 
can  assure  you  of  that.  If  you  only  knew  I  " 

"Knew  what?" 

"How  I  want  to  stay." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

For  a  moment  the  young  man  kept  silence.  The 
doctor  could  hear  his  breathing.  Then  he  answered — 

"To  prison." 

In  the  lamplight  of  the  room  the  two  men  looked 
at  each  other. 

The  doctor  studied  his  visitor  with  a  closer  scrutiny. 
The  young  man  was  something  more  than  a  gentle- 
man. He  was  refined,  elegant  and  gracious.  There 
was  charm  in  his  presence,  in  his  manner,  in  his 
gesture,  in  his  voice.  He  was  pleasant,  brilliant,  in 
quite  a  manly  fashion  beautiful.  It  was  difficult  to 
believe  that  this  almost  girlish  young  aristocrat  was 
going  into  prison ;  it  was  impossible  to  think  that  he 
was  lying. 

"I  am  sorry  for  you,"  said  the  doctor,  at  the  end 
of  the  scrutiny. 

"I  am  sorry  for  the  girl,"  answered  the  youth. 
Then  he  added,  "Don't  tell  her  that  I  am  going  to 


i4  THE   CAGE 

prison.  I  beg  you  not  to.  It  would  make  her  fonder 
of  me." 

In  spite  of  the  doctor's  arguments,  he  refused  to  tell 
his  real  name  or  to  give  any  details  of  the  crime  which 
was  carrying  him  to  prison.  He  said  that  his  arrest 
might  be  delayed,  but  that  it  was  inevitable.  He 
had  one  overmastering  desire,  that  the  woman  should 
be  led  to  believe,  when  she  was  well  enough  to  bear 
it,  that  he  had  deserted  her.  Again  and  again  he 
repeated  with  transparent  sincerity  this  eager  desire. 
"I  have  just  written  to  my  mother,"  he  concluded; 
"it  is  my  confession  of  everything.  I  have  told  her 
that  this  particular  matter  is  in  your  hands.  She  is 
a  proud  woman,  but  I  hope  she  will  help  the  child, 
through  you,  in  case  anything  should  happen  to  me. 
The  money,  which  I  leave  with  you,  I  regret  to  say, 
is  the  last  penny  I  possess  in  the  world." 

Dr.  Ainslie  most  unwillingly  accepted  the  mission. 
The  young  man  passed  out  of  his  house  and  out  of  his 
life,  but  not  out  of  his  memory.  He  attended  the 
woman  through  her  confinement,  and  visited  her 
frequently  after  the  child  was  born,  a  healthy  boy,  the 
express  image  of  his  father.  Then,  before  he  had 
spent  a  shilling  of  the  money  left  in  his  hands  for 
their  well-being,  the  mother  and  the  baby  disap- 
peared. The  landlady  could  tell  him  nothing.  The 
woman  had  paid  her  bill  and  taken  her  departure. 

Dr.  Ainslie,  such  was  his  nature,  and  so  numerous 
were  his  occupations,  was  more  vexed  by  than  inter- 
ested in  this  mystery.  He  made  no  inquiries  about 
the  woman  and  child ;  he  was  but  little  curious  con- 


HERITAGE  15 

cerning  the  father.  In  the  busy  life  of  such  a  man 
romance  finds  no  welcome,  mystery  is  driven  from 
the  door.  He  invested  the  money  left  in  his  hands, 
and  attended  to  his  business. 

One  day,  some  months  after  the  disappearance  of 
mother  and  child,  an  old  lady  called  upon  Dr.  Ainslie 
and  refused  to  give  any  name.  It  was  the  mother  of 
the  youth  who  had  gone  to  prison.  She  was  dressed  in 
heavy  mourning,  and  wore  a  dark  veil  over  her  face. 
She  asked  for  news  of  the  woman  and  the  child.  Dr. 
Ainslie  had  to  confess  his  ignorance  of  their  where- 
abouts. The  old  lady  seemed  relieved.  He  spoke  of 
money  left  in  his  hands,  and  declared  his  wish  to  get 
rid  of  it.  "I  could  not  touch  it,"  said  the  voice 
behind  the  veil.  "And  I  cannot  keep  it,  ma'am,"  he 
retorted.  "It  is  a  solemn  trust,"  answered  the  voice 
sternly;  "some  day  the  child  will  demand  it  of  you." 
She  went  away,  and  next  day  the  post  brought  Dr. 
Ainslie  a  five-pound  note  enclosed  in  a  piece  of  paper 
on  which  was  written  "Dr.  Ainslie's  fee,"  in  the  thin 
pointed  handwriting  of  an  old  lady.  For  seven  years 
the  mysterious  visitor  presented  herself  once  a  year 
at  the  house  of  the  doctor ;  on  each  occasion  she  came 
heavily  veiled,  and  on  each  occasion  she  refused  to 
accept  the  accumulating  money  which  the  doctor 
pressed  her  to  take,  and  on  each  occasion  her  visit 
was  followed  by  a  five-pound  note  enclosed  in  a  sheet 
of  paper  with  the  inscription,  "Dr.  Ainslie's  fee." 

Then  the  visits  ceased. 

Three  years  had  passed  away  since  that  last  visit, 
and  now  in  the  winter  of  1885  the  whole  memory  of 


16  THE   CAGE 

this  mysterious  affair  was  suddenly  and  tragically 
revived.  The  note  which  had  summoned  the  doctor  so 
urgently  was  from  the  girl  abandoned  by  the  young 
man  who  had  gone  to  prison.  She  was  dying. 

Dr.  Ainslie  was  conducted  to  a  small  bedroom  at 
the  back  of  the  house  so  high  up  that  it  caught  all 
the  red  splendours  of  a  winter  sunset.  A  bird  was 
singing  loudly  in  its  cage  by  the  window.  The 
little  apartment  was  neatly  furnished  and  not  without 
touches  of  refinement.  The  walls  were  covered  with 
a  blue-and-white  paper;  the  dressing-table  was  draped 
with  blue-glazed  linen  covered  by  white  muslin ; 
where  the  carpet,  which  was  only  a  blue  felt,  did  not 
reach  the  walls  the  floor  boards  were  painted  white. 
On  a  bed  against  the  wall,  which  was  covered  by  a 
knitted  cotton  counterpane,  with  her  head  towards 
the  window  and  her  feet  towards  the  fire-place,  lay 
the  woman  he  had  come  to  see.  She  had  seven  or 
eight  hours  to  live. 

Ainslie  brought  a  chair  to  the  bedside  and  sat 
down.  The  woman  was  passing  through  a  fit  of 
gasping.  The  counterpane  rose  and  fell  with  the 
violent  heavings  of  her  body.  He  took  a  soft  towel 
and  passed  it  gently  over  her  streaming  forehead. 
Her  eyes,  which  were  filled  with  a  staring  terror,  the 
effect  of  her  pain,  turned  towards  him  and  thanked 
him  for  this  kindness.  The  bird  sang  cheerfully  in 
its  cage. 

"You  will  be  easier  in  a  moment,"  he  said,  and 
placed  one  of  his  hands  on  the  feverish  and  wasted 
fingers  which  were  picking  at  the  sheets.  "Be  in  no 


HERITAGE  I? 

hurry.  I  remember  you  perfectly.  I  am  here  to 
help  you." 

The  sunset  illumined  the  little  room,  but  left  the 
woman's  face  in  shadow.  It  looked  dark  and  obscure 
on  the  pillows,  which  were  grey  in  the  shadow.  Her 
dark  hair  was  like  a  sea  of  death  in  which  the  poor 
drowning  face  floated  mistily. 

When  the  spasm  was  over,  and  she  had  moistened 
her  lips,  she  said  to  him,  "Will  you  tell  him,  after 
I'm  gone,  that  I  was  happy?" 

The  doctor  hesitated.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "I  will  tell 
him." 

The  flicker  of  a  smile  passed  over  the  woman's  face. 
"I  haven't  been  a  trouble  to  him,"  she  said,  in  a 
whisper;  "I  haven't  spoilt  his  life." 

"  Does  this  bird  worry  you  ?  Shall  I  move  it  from 
the  window  ?  " 

"Oh  no;  it  doesn't  worry  me." 

"  Why  did  you  go  away  from  me  ?  "  asked  Ainslie, 
bending  nearer  to  her.  The  bird  was  singing  so 
cheerfully  that  he  had  difficulty  in  hearing  the 
woman's  voice. 

"So  as  not  to  trouble  him,"  she  answered.  "I  was 
ruining  his  life.  I  knew  he  would  come  back  to  me." 
She  gasped  for  a  moment.  "Everything  helped  me," 
she  continued.  "The  baby  came  when  the  regiment 
was  going  away;  he  had  to  leave  me  in  Edinburgh; 
he  couldn't  help  it,  and  that  was  my  chance  to  save 
him." 

"And  the  baby?" 

"I  thought  of  the  baby,  too,"  she  answered. 


i8  THE   CAGE 

"It  was  a  boy,  the  image  of  his  father." 

"  I  have  paid  a  woman  to  bring  him  up  as  her  own 
child." 

"  So  that  he  might  not  trouble  his  father  ?  " 

"Yes;  and  never  be  ashamed  of  his  mother." 

"  Where  is  he  now  ?  " 

"Leave  him.     It  is  better.     He  will  never  know." 

"But  his  father  gave  me  a  sum  of  money  for  you 
and  the  child,  too." 

Her  eyes  brightened;  the  wax-like  pallor  of  her 
face  was  suffused  with  a  soft  fire;  her  lips  parted  in 
a  smile.  The  doctor  never  forgot  the  look  in  those 
dying  eyes  as  she  breathed  the  proud  words,  "He 
loved  me  1  " 

"You  appear  to  have  loved  him,  too,"  answered  the 
doctor. 

She  closed  her  eyes;  she  was  still  smiling.  Her 
expression  was  sublime  enough  for  Simeon  at  the 
moment  when  he  breathed  the  first  Nunc  Dimittis. 
She  was  satisfied.  Life  had  no  more  to  give. 

The  last  flame  of  sunset  died  away;  the  room 
became  cold;  the  bird  stopped  singing. 

"You  must  tell  me  where  this  boy  is,"  said  the 
doctor.  "You  have  sacrificed  yourself  for  the  man. 
You  have  been  noble  there.  But  you  are  a  mother. 
You  owe  it  to  your  child  that  he  should  have  the 
protection  and  the  influence  of  his  father.  Besides, 
I  must  get  rid  of  the  money." 

Very  gently  he  reasoned  with  her,  and  at  last, 
chiefly  because  she  herself  had  saved  a  sum  of  money 
for  the  child,  she  yielded  to  his  insistence.  He 


HERITAGE  19 

received  from  her  dying  lips  the  whereabouts  of  the 
son  she  had  given  up  for  the  sake  of  the  father  from 
whom  she  had  hidden  her  life.  From  those  dying 
lips,  too,  he  received  the  simple  story  of  her  exist- 
ence during  the  past  ten  years.  She  had  first  ob- 
tained employment  in  one  of  the  smaller  Edinburgh 
hotels,  and  out  of  her  wages  had  paid  for  the  support 
of  her  child;  her  one  object  in  life  had  been  to  pre- 
vent the  man  she  loved  from  discovering  her.  Neither 
she  nor  the  child  must  ever  irk  that  life.  Then  she 
had  become  the  stewardess  of  a  Club  in  George 
Street,  and  not  only  had  paid  the  increased  demands 
of  her  child's  foster-parents,  but  had  laid  by  a  sum 
of  money  to  meet  any  future  demands  in  case  she 
should  lose  her  employment  or  fall  ill.  She  had  pro- 
vided for  every  contingency.  Her  life  had  been  one 
long,  cheerful  devotion  to  duty;  her  happiness  had 
been  the  certain  knowledge  that  she  was  no  longer  a 
source  of  ruin  to  the  man  she  had  loved. 

It  was  quite  clear  to  the  doctor  that  she  knew  no- 
thing of  her  lover's  crime  or  imprisonment.  But  she 
knew  what  he  did  not  know.  The  true  name  of  the 
lover. 

"Did  you  hear  nothing  of  this  man  all  through 
your  solitude  ?  "  he  asked,  in  the  deepening  darkness 
of  the  room. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Or  read  nothing  about  him  in  the  newspapers?" 

Her  eyes  brightened.  "  Is  he  married  ?  "  she  asked. 
The  tone  of  her  voice  told  him  that  her  eyes  had 
brightened. 

C2 


*>  THE   CAGE 

The  doctor  bent  nearer  to  her.  "I  must  tell  you 
something,"  he  said.  "I  do  not  know  his  name.  I 
know  nothing  about  him.  He  came  to  see  me.  He 
showed  me  that  he  loved  you.  He  left  money  with 
me.  Then  he  went  away " 

"With  his  regiment." 

"You  are  sure  of  that?" 

"His  regiment  went  away;   he  had  to  go  with  it." 

"And  you  have  never  heard  a  word  about  him 
since  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  proudly.  "I  haven't  tried," 
she  answered.  Then  she  began  to  think.  "  But,  how 
will  you  tell  him  that  I  have  been  happy  ?  You  don't 
know  who  he  is  ?  " 

"No." 

She  was  silent  for  a  long  time.  "Perhaps  it  is 
best,"  she  said  at  last,  very  slowly  and  almost  wearily. 
"He  may  have  forgotten  by  now.  Yes,  don't  try  and 
find  him.  Only,  if  he  comes  to  see  you,  some  day, 
tell  him  I  have  been  happy." 

"  His  mother  comes  to  see  me." 

"  His  mother  I  "  Her  eyes  opened  wide.  "  His 
mother  I  Are  you  telling  me  the  truth  ?  " 

"Yes.  She  has  been  to  see  me.  Seven  times. 
When  she  comes  again,  I  will  tell  her  about  you. 
She  will  tell  her  son.  He  shall  know." 

"His  mother!"  she  whispered.  "His  mother  I 
How  strange  that  seems." 

"She  will  help  your  child." 

"I  can't  understand.  His  mother!  Why  did  his 
mother  come  ?  " 


HERITAGE  21 

"It  was  his  wish  that  she  should  be  kind  to  you." 

The  trouble  left  her  face.  "Oh  !  "  she  breathed  in 
a  long-drawn  pleasure.  Then  she  whispered,  "How 
beautiful  I  How  beautiful !  " 

"Would  it  not  be  best  for  you,"  asked  the  doctor 
presently,  "to  tell  me  the  name  of  the  man  ?  " 

"No!  Oh  no!  "  she  answered,  with  a  smile.  "It 
has  never  passed  my  lips." 

When  Ainslie  left  her  it  was  after  six  o'clock.  He 
lighted  a  lamp  for  her,  and  left  her  with  the  landlady. 
Snow  was  falling  with  a  steady  persistency  when  he 
came  into  the  street.  He  hurried  back  to  his  house, 
saw  those  patients  who  were  waiting  for  him,  and 
without  taking  food  set  out  again  for  the  address 
given  him  by  the  woman.  For  the  first  time  since 
his  child  was  born  he  did  not  visit  her  in  her  cot.  The 
clocks  were  striking  nine  when  he  opened  the  door. 
It  was  still  snowing. 

He  took  a  tram  at  Waterloo  Place,  and  travelled  to 
Leith.  His  way  ran  through  an  apparently  intermin- 
able mean  street  of  small  houses,  whose  shuttered 
windows  were  rimmed  with  light,  and  whose  roofs 
were  white  with  snow.  No  one  was  to  be  seen  in  the 
long  vista  of  snow  and  gaslight.  Not  a  sound  issued 
from  the  shuttered  houses.  At  last  he  perceived  at 
the  end  of  the  avenue  of  gas  lamps  a  black  mass  of 
buildings  with  immense  chimney-stacks  fluttering 
tongues  of  crimson  fire  in  the  black  sky.  He  knew  now 
that  he  was  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  street  for 
which  he  was  seeking.  Arrived  before  the  buildings, 
he  pulled  up  and  looked  about  him.  He  could  see 


aa  THE   CAGE 

the  masts  of  ships  over  the  roofs  of  houses.  Sounds 
of  life  came  from  a  dirty  public-house  at  a  distant 
corner.  Through  the  flakes  of  descending  snow  he 
saw  white  letters  on  the  great  gates  of  the  building : 
Paton's  Engineering  Works.  As  he  looked  at  the 
familiar  name,  the  dark  figure  of  a  child  passed 
across  the  white  letters.  The  doctor  hailed  the  boy, 
and  the  little  figure  stopped  in  front  of  the  dark 
gates. 

Ainslie  crossed  the  road,  and  asked  the  direction 
of  the  street  he  was  seeking.  The  boy  pointed  ahead. 
The  finger  that  he  lifted  was  blue  with  cold.  Ainslie 
looked  down  and  saw  that  the  boy  was  shoeless; 
that  the  little  legs  were  stooping  forward,  that  the 
shoulders  were  rounded,  that  the  face  of  the  child  was 
glassy  with  cold  and  hunger. 

"Why  aren't  you  at  home?"  he  asked,  feeling  in 
his  pocket. 

"I'm  going." 

"  Do  you  live  in  this  part  of  the  world  ?  " 

The  boy  nodded. 

"Whereabouts?" 

"Same  street  as  yours,"  answered  the  boy.  His 
teeth  rattled. 

"Come  along  with  me,  then,"  said  the  doctor,  and 
gave  his  hand.  "Have  you  got  a  father  and  a 
mother  ?  "  he  asked,  as  they  went  forward  through  the 
snow. 

"And  three  brothers  and  four  sisters,"  answered  the 
boy. 

"  Is  your  father  unkind  to  you  ?  " 


HERITAGE  23 

"Not  unless  I'm  late  home." 

"You  are  late  to-night?  Why?  What  have  you 
been  doing?" 

"Looking  at  the  Works." 

"  What  Works  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Paton's." 

"  Why  have  you  been  looking  at  them  ?  *J 

"I  like  them." 

They  arrived  in  the  street.  "I  want  number  thirty- 
six,"  said  the  doctor. 

"That's  ours,"  said  the  boy. 

The  doctor  stopped.  "What's  your  name?"  he 
asked. 

"Hugh." 

"And  your  surname?" 

"Logan." 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"Ten." 

The  doctor  walked  on  till  they  came  to  a  lamp.  He 
stopped  again.  "Look  up  at  me,  laddie,"  he  said. 
In  the  flickering  light  of  the  gas  he  recognized  this 
shivering  boy  as  the  child  of  the  mystery.  A  strange 
emotion  visited  the  old  doctor's  heart.  He  thought 
of  the  handsome  young  father  who  had  left  him  to 
go  to  a  prison;  he  thought  of  the  mother  who  was 
probably  dying  at  that  very  moment.  And  here, 
holding  his  hand,  was  the  child.  After  a  brief 
scrutiny,  he  said,  "You're  the  boy." 

"I've  done  nothing  wrong,"  answered  the  child. 

When  Ainslie  knocked  at  the  door  of  number 
thirty-six,  it  was  opened  by  a  harsh-faced  woman, 


24  THE   CAGE 

who  no  sooner  saw  the  boy  in  a  man's  charge  than 
she  turned  round  to  the  lighted  room,  and  exclaimed 
over  her  shoulder,  "The  young  devil's  been  up  to 
mischief." 

A  man  rose  behind  her,  and  there  was  a  clatter  of 
children's  feet  on  the  floor. 

"The  boy  has  done  no  harm,"  said  the  doctor. 

He  stood  in  the  entrance  of  the  room,  holding  the 
child's  hand. 

It  was  a  working-man's  kitchen — small,  low-roofed, 
draughty,  and  stone-floored.  A  table  was  laid  with 
a  rough  supper  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  An 
oil-lamp  with  a  tin  reflector  hung  from  one  of  the 
walls.  There  was  a  fire  in  the  grate.  On  the  top 
of  the  range  a  soot-blackened  kettle  was  hissing 
steam  and  the  lid  of  a  greasy  saucepan  was  begin- 
ning to  heave  and  fall  with  a  low  bubbling  sound, 
emitting  a  pungent  smell  which  reeked  into  the 
room. 

Seated  at  the  table  was  a  young  man  shabbily 
dressed,  but  marked  by  education  with  unmistakable 
signs  of  refinement.  It  was  evident  that  this  young 
man  was  a  lodger.  As  soon  as  he  perceived  the 
doctor  he  rose  hastily  from  his  chair.  The  man 
Logan  had  just  begun  to  speak;  the  wife  was  frown- 
ing at  the  visitor;  the  children  were  clamouring  round 
the  group  in  the  doorway. 

"Mr.  Logan,"  said  the  young  man  in  a  solemn 
voice,  standing  in  a  dramatic  attitude  of  repose,  "this 
is  the  great  Dr.  Ainslie." 

Ainslie  looked  over  the  heads  of  the  workman  and 


HERITAGE  25 

his  wife,  who  at  once  stared  their  astonishment  at  the 
visitor,  and  said  to  the  young  man,  "I've  seen  you 
before." 

"My  name,  sir,  is  Ramsay  M'Gavin,"  answered  the 
young  man. 

The  doctor  nodded.  "I  remember  you  very  well. 
I'm  pleased  to  see  you,  Mr.  M'Gavin." 

He  then  removed  his  hat,  and  came  further  into  the 
room.  "Mrs.  Logan,"  he  said,  "if  you'll  kindly  give 
the  laddie  his  supper,  and  get  him  to  bed,  I'll  be 
better  able  to  talk  to  you  and  the  goodman.  I've 
some  business  with  you."  Then,  after  a  long  study 
of  the  boy's  face,  he  turned  to  M'Gavin. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  lodging  in  these  parts, 
Mr.  M'Gavin." 

"It's  a  very  healthy  locality,  sir,"  answered  the 
young  man,  with  a  faint  flush. 

The  doctor  looked  about  him.  "There's  a  kettle 
boiling  on  the  fire,  Mr.  M'Gavin,"  he  said  after  a 
pause.  "If  you've  a  bath  on  the  premises,  it  would 
be  an  admirable  mixture  to  put  the  water  in  the  bath, 
add  the  boy,  stir  quickly  with  a  good  brush  or  a  piece 
of  flannel,  and  then  empty  the  boy  into  warm 
blankets." 

"I'll  see  to  it,  sir." 

"  I  think  his  feet  must  be  a  little  wet." 

"It's  verra  likely,  sir." 

When  the  children  had  left  the  room,  and  while 
their  shoes  could  be  heard  clattering  up  the  rickety 
stairs,  Ainslie  explained  to  Logan  and  his  wife  that 
he  had  come  for  the  boy  Hugh,  come  to  take  him 


26  THE   CAGE 

away.  "I  understand  there's  nothing  owing,"  he 
concluded. 

"He's  been  well  mithered,  doctor,"  said  the  man, 
who  felt  an  instinctive  fear  of  Ainslie. 

"We've  always  treated  him  as  one  of  our  ain,"  said 
the  woman,  not  without  challenge. 

"You'll  no  doubt  have  done  your  best." 

"But,  doctor,"  said  the  woman  suddenly,  "how  did 
you  know  that  Hughie  was  the  one.  He  doesn't 
know  himself,  and  we've  always  called  him  a  Logan." 

"I  recognized  him,"  said  the  doctor,  and  fixed  his 
eyes  on  the  woman. 

"Ay,"  said  the  man  Logan,  "he  was  always  differ- 
ent from  the  others." 

Before  he  took  his  departure,  Ainslie  paid  a  visit  to 
the  room  occupied  by  M*  Gavin.  It  was  a  garret 
under  the  slates,  with  a  truckle  bed  in  one  corner,  a 
kitchen  table  in  the  window,  a  chest  of  drawers  and 
a  washstand  side  by  side  against  the  wall  near  the 
door.  The  table  was  crowded  with  books,  and  there 
were  books  on  the  chest  of  drawers,  the  bed,  and  the 
floor.  A  little  brass  lamp,  a  penny  bottle  of  ink,  a 
sheet  of  blotting-paper,  and  several  exercise  books 
were  squeezed  between  the  many  piles  of  volumes 
stacked  upon  the  table.  On  the  walls  were  two 
pictures,  one  of  Pasteur,  the  other  of  Lister. 

The  great  doctor  realized  that  here  was  a  painful 
and  laborious  student  of  medicine  who  knew  infinitely 
more  than  he  knew  about  that  science,  and  who  would 
yet  never  succeed.  "M.D.,"  he  thought  to  himself, 
"will  never  mean  Many  Dinners  for  this  poor  lad." 


HERITAGE  27 

Knowledge  of  human  nature  was  wanting;  the  well- 
stored  brain  lacked  the  synthesis  of  a  personality. 
He  felt  a  father's  pity  for  the  young  man. 

Ramsay  M*  Gavin  was  one  of  many  obscure  young 
men  at  the  Royal  Infirmary  for  whom  Dr.  Ainslie 
provided.  He  was  the  son  of  a  widow  who  had  once 
been  a  servant  in  the  doctor's  house.  His  first  step 
was  to  serve  in  Ainslie's  dispensary  and  deliver 
medicines  at  the  houses  of  patients.  The  young 
man's  life  since  then  had  been  one  long  effort  to 
justify  the  patronage  of  the  great  physician.  Every 
examination  that  he  passed  was  to  him  a  glory ;  every 
scholarship  that  he  won  was  an  ecstasy.  "Dr. 
Ainslie  will  hear  of  this,"  he  used  to  say.  He  went 
first  to  the  University  and  then  to  the  Infirmary.  The 
turning  point  in  his  career  was  the  visit  of  Pasteur  to 
Edinburgh  for  the  tercentenary  of  the  University. 
M' Gavin  came  under  the  spell  of  that  very  great  man. 
Ainslie  was  his  providence ;  Pasteur  was  his  god.  It 
was  from  Ainslie  he  got  the  opportunity  to  become  a 
respectable  professional  man ;  it  was  from  Pasteur 
he  received  the  divine  enthusiasm  to  be  a  man  of 
science. 

"So  you're  lodging  here?"  asked  Dr.  Ainslie, 
looking  about  him.  "And  your  mother,  Mr. 
M* Gavin?  Where  is  that  grand  woman?" 

"Through  your  kindness,  sir,"  replied  the  student, 
whose  heart  was  swelling  at  the  thought  that  Robert 
Ainslie  stood  in  his  room,  "she's  living  in  great 
comfort  in  Peeblesshire." 

"You're  supporting  her,  no  doubt?" 


28  THE   CAGE 

"Out  of  your  bounty,  sir." 

The  great  doctor's  thoughts  went  back  to  his 
student  days.  "You'll  be  the  better  man  for  the 
struggle,  Mr.  M'Gavin." 

"I'm  wanting  for  nothing,  sir." 

Dr.  Ainslie  thought  for  a  moment.  "  Mr.  M'Gavin," 
he  said,  "I'm  taking  away  the  boy  Hugh  to-morrow. 
He's  not  the  son  of  these  Logans.  I  happen  to  know 
something  about  his  antecedents.  It  occurs  to  me 
that  he  might  go  to  Portobello  for  a  bit.  Would  it 
suit  your  convenience  to  take  charge  of  him  ?  Porto- 
bello's  a  rare  air  for  study." 

"I  am  your  servant,  sir." 

"You've  observed  the  boy,  I  dare  say,"  said  the 
doctor,  after  a  pause.  "What  do  you  make  of  him, 
Mr.  M'Gavin?" 

The  student,  with  one  of  the  dramatic  gestures 
which  were  quite  natural  to  him,  indicated  his  books. 
"I've  had  no  time,  sir,  for  observation." 

Dr.  Ainslie  thought  to  himself,  "And  that  just 
damns  you,  my  poor  boy,  as  a  doctor."  Aloud  he 
said,  "He's  been  fairly  treated  on  the  whole,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"The  Logans  are  decent  people,  sir.  I've  always 
understood  the  boy  was  not  precisely  their  own. 
They  have  no  doubt  been  hard  on  him  occasionally. 
But  perhaps  not  without  justice.  He  has  a  disposition 
to  go  wandering  about  the  streets,  sir.  He  has  played 
the  truant  many  a  time.  He's  verra  often  late  to  his 
meals." 

Ainslie  nodded  his  head.    "Well,  Mr.  M'Gavin," 


HERITAGE  29 

he  said,  "may  I  ask  you  to  say  nothing  to  these  people 
as  to  the  boy's  destination,  and  to  bring  him  to  me 
to-morrow  at  one  o'clock  ?  "  He  put  his  hand  in  his 
pocket  and  produced  a  bank-note.  "If  you'll  be  so 
considerate  as  to  provide  him  with  a  small  wardrobe 
and  a  carpet  bag,  I'll  be  greatly  obliged  to  you." 

The  doctor  took  his  departure.  He  gave  the 
Logans  a  couple  of  sovereigns,  and  told  them  that 
Mr.  M 'Gavin  would  take  charge  of  the  boy  in  the 
morning. 

"I've  no  doubt,  sir,"  called  the  wife  as  he  moved 
to  the  street  door,  "that  the  laddie's  mother  is  a  rich 
lady?" 

"No,  ma'am,"  he  answered,  "she's  a  dead  woman." 

As  he  made  his  lonely  way  to  the  tram,  the  old 
doctor  said  to  himself,  "A  dead  woman  1  I  know  no 
more  of  the  boy  than  they  do." 


CHAPTER   II 

THE  TWO   DESTINIES 

MANY  people  in  Portobello  who  can  recall  the  latter 
part  of  the  'eighties,  may  still  remember  the  pretty 
picture  which  was  made  winter  and  summer,  in  all 
winds  and  weather,  by  two  charming  children  stray- 
ing together  on  the  seashore.  Their  companionship 
was  so  continual  that  it  attracted  attention ;  the  perfect 
understanding  which  existed  between  them  was  so 
amiable  that  it  delighted  the  observer.  The  boy, 
some  three  years  the  senior  of  the  girl,  was  a  slim, 
vigorous,  gracefully-made  child,  with  dark  hair,  a 
sun-burned,  freckled  face,  and  brown  eyes  remarkable 
for  their  size  and  brilliance.  He  wore  neither  cap 
to  his  head  nor  stockings  to  his  feet,  and  was  usually 
dressed  in  a  blue  jersey,  flannel  knickerbockers,  and 
sandshoes.  The  little  girl,  who  was  much  shorter 
and  plumper,  had  black  hair,  grey  eyes,  and  a  skin 
that  was  almost  golden.  She  wore  in  summer  a  Zulu 
hat,  which  was  more  often  in  her  hand  or  hanging 
down  her  back  than  on  her  head,  and  cotton  frocks, 
pink  or  pale  blue,  with  a  girdle  round  the  waist.  In 
winter  she  was  generally  seen  in  a  brown  jersey  and 
a  brown  skirt,  with  a  knitted  cap  pressed  close  over 

30 


THE   TWO    DESTINIES  31 

her  head.  She,  too,  winter  and  summer,  went  bare- 
legged. 

The  beautiful  intimacy  of  these  two  children,  who 
would  often  stray  so  far  away  on  the  lonely  sands 
that  they  looked  like  specks  in  the  distance,  was 
presided  over  by  a  little  old  lady  and  a  grave  young 
man,  who  sat  together  on  a  bench  facing  the  sea, 
each  with  a  book.  Occasionally,  two  or  three  times 
a  week,  perhaps,  these  guardians  would  be  joined  by 
a  heavily  built  and  severe-looking  old  man,  who, 
greeting  them  and  telling  them  to  stay  where  they 
were,  would  stride  away  across  the  sands,  like  one  in 
a  vast  hurry,  and  make  his  way  to  the  children. 
Residents  in  Portobello  recognized  this  visitor  and 
pointed  him  out  to  their  friends.  "That  is  the  great 
Dr.  Ainslie  of  Edinburgh,"  they  would  say,  with 
something  of  the  pride  of  possession. 

Dr.  Ainslie  had  placed  the  boy  Hugh  under  the 
care  of  Ramsay  M'  Gavin  in  a  house  close  to  the  sea, 
occupied  by  the  widow  of  a  medical  man  whom  he  had 
long  befriended.  He  gave  the  boy  the  name  of 
Napier,  under  which  his  mother  had  lived  when  he 
first  visited  her.  On  the  mother's  grave  in  Edinburgh 
cemetery,  to  which  he  took  the  boy,  was  the  name  of 
Mary  Napier,  and  the  date  of  her  death.  "You  must 
be  proud  of  your  mother,"  he  said,  standing  there 
with  a  hand  resting  on  the  boy's  shoulder;  and  then 
he  added  in  a  tone  of  voice  which  Napier  never  for- 
got, "Your  mother  was  a  loyal  woman;  a  brave 
woman;  a  good  woman."  Hugh  was  told  that  he 
had  been  placed  under  the  care  of  the  Logans  at 


32  THE   CAGE 

Leith  because  of  a  great  sorrow  which  took  his  father 
away  from  Edinburgh  and  made  it  necessary  for  his 
mother  to  live  alone.  "You  need  not  talk  of  these 
things  to  any  one,"  said  the  doctor,  watching  the 
boy's  brown  eyes,  "but  you  must  remember  them; 
and  if  your  father  comes  back,  you  must  tell  him 
that  you  are  proud  of  your  mother." 

The  rapid  change  made  in  the  boy's  appearance 
by  cleanly  habits,  wholesome  food,  and  the  bracing 
air  of  Portobello,  satisfied  the  observant  doctor,  and 
having  assured  himself  that  the  boy  was  a  good  boy 
and  clean-minded,  he  sent  Mrs.  Dobson  and  Anne  to 
take  up  their  quarters  with  Ramsay  M* Gavin  and 
Hugh  Napier  in  the  widow's  house.  He  saw  that 
the  streets  of  Edinburgh  were  not  good  for  his  child, 
that  the  solitude  of  her  nursery  was  beginning  to 
depress  her;  he  spoke  to  his  wife,  made  his  request 
to  Mrs.  Dobson,  and  the  change  was  effected.  Anne 
went  to  Portobello  for  a  few  weeks,  and  stayed  there 
for  all  the  impressionable  years  of  her  childhood. 

It  was  at  this  period  that  Dr.  Ainslie,  seeing  the 
solitude  of  his  wife  and  being  frankly  addressed  on 
the  subject  by  Mrs.  Dobson,  made  an  ampler  allow- 
ance for  household  expenses,  a  generosity  which  per- 
mitted Mrs.  Ainslie  to  consolidate  her  position  in 
Edinburgh  society.  She  gave  a  musical  afternoon 
once  a  fortnight,  entertained  eight  or  ten  guests  to 
dinner  once  a  week,  and,  arrayed  in  fashionable 
millinery,  made  a  distinguished  figure  in  the 
Assembly  Rooms  and  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  such 
plutocrats  as  the  Patons. 


THE   TWO    DESTINIES  33 

While  the  mother,  with  an  ever-increasing  excite- 
ment, adventured  further  and  further  into  the  distrac- 
tions of  the  polite  world,  the  daughter,  straying  at 
the  side  of  Hugh  Napier  along  the  Portobello  sands, 
with — 

"The  delight  of  the  wind  in  her  eyes 
And  the  hand  of  the  wind  in  her  hair," 

entered  the  enchanted  world  of  a  child's  friendship — 
that  exquisite  Eden  from  which  the  flaming  sword  of 
maturity  too  soon  drives  us  forth. 

The  temperaments  of  these  two  children  were  as 
distinct  as  their  sex.  Napier  was  keen  and  vivid,  with 
a  boy's  love  of  daring,  a  boy's  delight  in  action  and 
accomplishment.  Anne  was  practical,  with  a  girl's 
receptiveness  for  the  breathings  and  glances  of  nature, 
with  a  quiet  sense  of  the  ridiculous.  But  their  com- 
munion was  perfect.  He,  with  his  high  talk  of  the 
things  he  meant  to  do  in  life  and  his  impatience  of 
Ramsay  M*  Gavin's  tedious  lessons,  was  never  so 
loquacious  and  never  so  happy  in  being  loquacious 
as  when  he  walked  with  this  little  girl,  who  carried  a 
doll  in  her  arms,  kept  her  eye  upon  the  tea-hour,  and 
who  would  sometimes  stop  him  to  say :  "Isn't  that  a 
lovely  cloud  ?  " 

He  was  friendly  with  boatmen  and  fishermen.  He 
liked  to  sit  on  the  side  of  a  boat  against  which  sailors 
were  leaning  their  broad  backs,  listening  to  their 
talk.  While  he  was  so  engaged,  Anne  sat  on  the 
sand,  with  her  doll  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  gazing  out 
to  sea,  her  lips  murmuring  soft  words  to  a  dulcet 
lilt.  He  would  come  back  to  hert  throw  himself  down 


34  THE   CAGE 

at  her  side,  and  plunging  his  fists  into  the  thin  sand, 
say :  "  I  should  like  to  have  a  boat.  But  these  men 
don't  know  much.  You  see  real  sailors  at  Leith." 

She  understood  him  perfectly.  His  ways  were  not 
her  ways,  but  she  could  see  things  with  his  eyes. 
A  boy,  she  felt,  ought  to  sail  a  boat,  ought  to  wish 
to  be  a  fisherman,  ought  to  talk  about  the  business 
of  the  sea  rather  than  of  the  sea  itself.  She  admired 
him  for  the  swiftness  of  his  paces,  for  the  strength  of 
his  little  arms,  for  his  wonderful  knowledge  of  ships 
and  their  gear.  When  he  made  fun  of  her  doll's 
house,  her  tea-set,  her  cooking-stove,  and  her  habit 
of  putting  her  dolls  to  bed,  she  liked  it  and  smiled 
at  him. 

There  was  nothing  sentimental  in  their  friendship. 
They  came  down  to  breakfast,  the  freshness  of  early 
morning  in  their  veins,  not  only  to  eat,  but  to  banter 
each  other,  to  argue,  even  to  quarrel.  Later  in  the 
morning  when  Anne  was  dismissed  by  her  governess 
and  Hugh  by  Mr.  M'Gavin,  they  would  compare 
notes  of  what  they  had  learned,  Hugh  grumbling 
at  the  dullness  of  his  task  and  Anne  championing  the 
cause  of  learning.  When  they  lay  on  the  sands, 
after  their  bathe  in  the  sea,  eating  water  biscuits, 
which  made  a  great  many  crumbs  in  their  laps,  Hugh 
would  be  silent  and  turn  over  on  his  side  if  Anne 
talked.  And  in  the  afternoon,  when  they  met  again 
for  delightful  hours  on  the  sands,  their  companion- 
ship would  begin  with  a  certain  amount  of  roughness 
and  disputation.  Hugh  would  snatch  her  doll  from 
her  hands,  and  run  away  with  it ;  or  take  her  up  in  his 


THE    TWO    DESTINIES  35 

arms  and  pretend  to  push  her  in  the  sea;  or  tease 
her  for  being  a  good  girl  who  never  dirtied  her  pina- 
fore, and  who  sapped  at  her  lessons.  Or,  he  would 
stray  away  from  her,  and  join  groups  of  fishermen, 
and  forget  that  she  was  waiting  for  him  alone  on  the 
sands. 

But  their  real  relationship  to  each  other  manifested 
itself  when  the  pulses  quieted  towards  the  evening. 
Then  it  was,  quite  unconsciously,  that  Hugh  would 
put  his  arm  round  her  neck  as  they  dragged  their 
feet  homewards,  and  talk  to  her  as  freely  as  he 
talked  to  his  own  soul.  Then  it  was  that  gentleness 
existed  between  them  and  all  the  pretty  seriousness 
of  childhood.  The  games  of  the  day  were  over,  the 
quarrels  forgotten,  the  banter  exhausted.  The  hand- 
some boy,  with  his  arm  round  the  little  girl's  neck, 
his  eyes  on  the  sand  before  him,  his  feet  kicking 
lazily  at  pebbles,  starfish,  or  shell  of  hermit  crab, 
would  speak  about  his  future  in  which  Anne  was 
always  to  have  a  place.  "I  shall  be  an  engineer  at 
Paton's,"  he  would  say;  "and  I  shall  live  in  Porto- 
bello,  and  have  a  boat  here,  and  I'll  take  you  sailing 
alone,  and  we'll  catch  fish  and  bring  them  home  for 
our  tea;  and  when  my  holidays  come  we'll  go  on  a 
big  ship  to  foreign  countries,  and  see  the  West 
Indies."  And  if  she  ever  asked  about  his  life  at 
Leith  he  would  tell  her  of  Paton's  Engineering  Works 
• — the  noise  of  hammering  on  steel,  the  row  of 
monster  furnaces,  the  incredible  strength  of  gigantic 
cranes,  the  grinding,  buzzing,  and  hammering  of 

innumerable  turning  wheels.     He  would  tell  her  of 

D  a 


36  THE   CAGE 

the  immense  piers,  the  vast  docks,  of  ships  from  Hol- 
land, and  Germany,  and  Russia;  of  the  real  sailors 
he  had  talked  with  in  those  mighty  docks.  He  spoke 
of  his  foster-father  to  mention  his  immense  strength. 
His  foster-mother,  he  used  to  say,  was  very  strict 
with  him.  If  Anne  asked  about  the  children  of  those 
parents,  Hugh  would  speak  of  the  strength  of  the 
boys,  and  tell  her  how  they  fought  other  boys.  He 
never  breathed  a  word  concerning  the  poverty  of  that 
home.  Leith  for  him  was  the  gate  to  the  sea.  The 
Logan  household  faded  more  and  more  in  his  mind  as 
only  a  grey  and  unnecessary  background  to  the  docks, 
the  pier,  the  shipping  and  the  sea. 

When  they  went  to  Edinburgh  on  half-holidays 
Anne  liked  to  go  to  Cumming's  Bazaar  in  Cockburn 
Street;  Hugh  preferred  Lennie,  in  Princes  Street, 
the  optician  who  sold  engines  and  all  manner  of 
mechanical  toys.  If  they  went  to  Robert  Grant's 
book-shop  in  Princes  Street,  or  to  Andrew  Elliott's, 
they  drifted  to  different  shelves,  Hugh  in  quest  of 
adventure  books,  Anne  in  search  of  romance.  It  was 
only  at  Vallance's  sweet-shop  in  Hanover  Street  that 
they  manifested  a  common  taste;  Edinburgh  Rock 
united  them. 

Anne  noticed  that  Hugh  had  great  influence  with 
her  father.  One  day  the  doctor  met  them  and  asked 
if  they  were  happy.  "I  should  like  a  pony,"  Hugh 
had  answered.  The  two  children  had  seen  the  Eng- 
lish cavalry  regiment  from  Jock's  Lodge  exercising 
their  horses  on  the  sand,  and  the  sight  had  made  a 
great  impression  on  the  boy.  The  doctor  said  that 


THE    TWO    DESTINIES  37 

they  should  have  a  pony  between  them.  "Father 
gives  you  whatever  you  ask  for,"  Anne  said  to 
him  that  evening.  "He's  jolly  kind,"  answered 
Hugh. 

The  pony  was  a  great  pleasure  to  them,  but  while 
Hugh  soon  tired  of  riding  and  returned  to  his  affec- 
tion for  ships,  Anne  loved  the  little  shaggy  creature 
for  itself,  and  paid  many  visits  to  its  big  loose-box 
— where  it  looked  no  larger  than  a  mouse — with 
sugar  and  chopped  carrot.  The  pony  would  follow 
her  about.  Hugh  said  it  was  not  a  real  horse ;  it  was 
more  like  a  pet  lamb. 

There  was  one  incident  in  their  childhood  which 
Hugh  never  told  to  Anne.  She  was  amazed  one  day 
as  they  walked  on  the  sand  to  hear  him  say  to  her 
under  his  breath,  "That  boy  wants  to  fight  me."  A 
group  of  dirty  little  boys,  familiar  enough  on  these 
sands,  had  just  gone  by;  Anne  had  scarcely  noticed 
them.  "Why  should  he  want  to  fight  you?"  she 
asked.  "I  know  he  does,"  Hugh  answered.  The 
two  boys  had  never  spoken  to  each  other;  they  had 
merely  passed  a  dozen  times,  perhaps,  and  looked  into 
each  other's  eyes.  The  spontaneous  enmities  of  boys 
are  not  to  be  explained. 

One  evening  Mrs.  Dobson  asked  Hugh  to  take  a 
letter  to  the  post.  On  his  way  home  he  came  sud- 
denly upon  his  little  enemy  of  the  sands.  He  was 
accompanied  by  a  much  bigger  boy,  a  youth,  almost 
a  young  man.  As  they  approached  Hugh,  the  boy 
pointed  at  him  with  his  finger  and  spoke  to  his  com- 
panion. Hugh  felt  his  heart  begin  to  beat  hard  and 


38  THE   CAGE 

was  troubled  in  his  breathing;  he  kept  close  to  the 
wall,  and  came  on  at  a  slower  pace.  When  they  were 
quite  close,  the  young  man  suddenly  stepped  in  front 
of  Hugh  and  stopped  his  progress  with  a  menacing 
attitude  perfectly  terrible  to  the  lonely  boy.  Then  this 
bully  turned  to  the  smaller  boy,  his  companion,  and 
said,  "  Go  on ;  hit  him  !  "  At  this  the  little  boy  came 
forward,  he  was  about  the  same  size  as  Hugh,  and 
hit  him  suddenly  a  stinging  blow  on  the  mouth ;  after 
that  he  ran  away,  and  the  big  boy  covered  his  flight, 
scowling  down  on  Hugh,  but  without  speaking  a 
word.  The  tears  rushed  to  Hugh's  eyes;  his  lips, 
which  were  numb  from  the  blow,  began  to  quiver ;  he 
stood  there,  shaking  all  over,  miserable,  defeated,  and 
afraid.  When  the  big  boy  moved  away,  which  he 
did  very  slowly  at  first,  looking  back  over  his  shoulder 
at  Hugh  with  the  same  terrible  menace  in  his  scowling 
eyes,  Hugh,  manfully  fighting  his  sobs,  continued 
his  way  with  hanging  head  and  choking  rage  in  his 
heart.  There  is  scarcely  anything  more  shattering 
to  a  high-spirited  boy  than  to  feel  that  he  has  played 
the  coward. 

He  never  told  Anne  of  this  incident.  It  became 
one  of  the  secrets  of  his  life.  He  was  glum  and  sullen 
for  several  days  after,  and  told  Dr.  Ainslie  that  he 
should  like  to  go  to  school.  He  felt  ashamed  of  being 
seen  in  the  streets  of  Portobello,  with  the  memory  of 
that  blow  on  his  lips.  He  thought  that  every  lad 
who  looked  at  him  must  know  about  it. 

One  day  as  he  and  Anne  were  returning  from  a  walk 
on  the  sands,  the  little  girl  was  first  astonished  and 


THE    TWO    DESTINIES  39 

then  terrified  to  see  Hugh  spring  suddenly  forward 
from  her  side  and  rush  towards  a  group  of  little  boys 
who  were  walking  home  with  nets  and  bottles  of  fish. 
Into  this  group  rushed  the  furious  Hugh,  very  white 
of  face  and  trembling  in  every  limb.  He  got  in  front 
of  one  of  the  boys  and  shouted  to  him,  in  a  thick 
voice  which  shook  with  nervous  excitement,  "Come 
on  !  Hit  me,  now  !  I  dare  you  I  " 

Anne  felt  as  if  the  world  were  coming  to  an  end. 
She  stood  where  he  had  left  her.  The  sky  was  going 
round;  the  sands  were  in  commotion.  Then  she  gave 
a  little  cry  and  clutched  her  doll  tight  to  her  breast. 
Hugh  was  fighting.  He  looked  like  a  devil. 

The  fight  ended  quickly.  Down  went  the  enemy 
of  Hugh,  bellowing  and  bleeding,  and  the  other  boys, 
stooping  over  him,  shouted  in  a  loud  and  terrifying 
chorus,  each  shaking  and  wagging  a  threatening  bare 
hand  at  the  victor,  "I'll  tell  my  father  of  you  !  " 

Hugh  walked  away,  and  Anne  ran  after  him. 
"  Why  did  you  fight  like  that  ?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"He  cheeked  me,"  rejoined  Hugh,  breathing  hard. 

Warned  by  the  now  satisfied  boy  not  to  say  a  word 
about  this  matter  either  to  Mrs.  Dobson  or  her  father, 
Anne  kept  the  terrible  memory  in  her  heart.  She 
often  lived  the  scene  over  again  as  she  lay  in  bed 
with  her  doll  nestled  against  her  breast.  It  was  a 
memory  which  made  her  suspicious  of  boys.  She 
thought  it  was  horrible.  She  felt  that  Hugh  was  a 
hero,  but  wicked.  She  always  now  hurried  him  away 
from  groups  of  boys  on  the  sands.  She  told  him  that 
if  he  fought  again  she  should  run  home. 


40  THE   CAGE 

The  chief  personal  influence  on  Anne's  character 
was  not  Hugh,  and  not  her  governess,  but  the  grand- 
mother who  adored  this  charming  little  girl.  Mrs. 
Dobson  was  about  the  same  age  as  her  son-in-law, 
that  is  to  say,  she  was  in  the  neighbourhood  of  sixty. 
Her  appearance  was  remarkable.  She  was  extremely 
small,  under  five  feet,  with  a  well-shaped,  intellectual 
head  something  too  large  for  her  body,  and  a  strong, 
sweet,  brown  face,  which  while  it  was  intensely 
feminine  had  yet  the  intellectual  agility  and  the  mascu- 
line spirituality  which  one  associates  with  a  scholarly 
ecclesiastic.  Instead  of  the  little  lace  cap  which 
covered  the  iron-grey  hair  worn  in  two  swelling  wings 
over  the  ears,  one  wanted  to  see  the  scarlet  cap  of  a 
cardinal.  The  brow  was  high  and  bold;  the  eyes 
dark  grey  ringed  with  pale  blue;  the  nose  aquiline; 
the  lips  thin  and  firm;  the  chin  long  and  gentle. 
The  colour  of  her  skin  was  almost  of  gypsy  brown, 
and  the  wrinkles,  which  were  numerous,  had  all  the 
fineness  of  a  spider's  web. 

This  delightful  little  old  lady  spent  her  days  be- 
tween literature  and  music.  She  played  Mendels- 
sohn, Beethoven,  Chopin  and  Schubert.  She  read 
biographies  and  novels.  Her  memory  was  very  good. 
She  could  remember  vividly,  and  describe  with  anima- 
tion incidents  in  her  childhood  and  books  which  she 
had  read  as  a  girl.  She  spoke  French  very  prettily, 
and  could  read  a  little  German.  She  never  did  any 
needlework,  and  was  not  in  the  least  interested  in 
flowers.  For  the  sea  she  had  a  great  aversion.  She 
said  that  she  preferred  its  ozone  to  its  company.  Her 


THE   TWO   DESTINIES  41 

views  as  regards  nature  were  very  much  those  of  Dr. 
Johnson. 

The  mind  of  this  little  dry  old  woman  was  exceed- 
ingly active  and  playful.  She  had  the  serenity  of  a 
comic  spirit.  Whatever  humanity  was  about,  it 
amused  her.  She  expressed  neither  disdain  nor  anger 
for  her  aversions,  she  laughed  at  them.  People  were 
always  merry  in  her  company.  She  bantered  Mr. 
Ramsay  M' Gavin  on  his  devotion  to  Pasteur.  She 
laughed  at  Hugh  for  his  blunders  in  the  humanities 
and  his  friendships  with  fishermen.  She  teased  the 
widow-landlady  by  hiding  her  knitting  needles  or 
pinning  the  lawn  streamers  of  her  cap  to  an  antima- 
cassar. She  amused  herself  by  arguing  about  politics 
with  Anne's  governess,  a  lady  who  established  in 
her  own  mind  a  correlation  between  the  strictest 
interpretation  of  Christianity  and  the  most  intol- 
erant conservatism  of  privilege.  It  was  only  to 
Anne  herself  that  the  old  lady  showed  any  mothering 
tenderness. 

From  Mrs.  Dobson,  not  from  her  governess,  Anne 
received  a  taste  for  reading  and  music.  She  would 
stand  by  the  piano  while  the  old  lady's  withered  hands 
moved  over  the  keys,  watching  the  smiling  face  which 
reflected  the  sweetness  of  the  music.  She  practised 
with  the  hope  of  one  day  being  able  to  play  like  her 
grandmother.  Then  they  read  aloud  to  each  other; 
the  grandmother  in  a  straight-backed  arm-chair,  the 
child  on  a  stool  at  her  feet.  When  Anne  mispro- 
nounced a  long  word,  the  grandmother  smiled, 
laughed  gently,  and  correcting  her^  bent  down  to  kiss 


42  THE   CAGE 

the  little  face  upturned  to  her  with  a  child's  shame  of 
a  fault. 

But  Anne  received  something  more  from  her  grand- 
mother than  a  taste  for  music  and  a  taste  for  read- 
ing. She  caught  the  active  and  energetic  spirit  of 
the  old  lady's  disposition.  Anne  had  the  slightest 
of  stammers,  a  nervous  hesitancy  over  words  begin- 
ning with  a  hard  consonant.  "You  must  fight  that 
habit,"  said  Mrs.  Dobson;  "it  is  as  bad  as  tippling. 
Tighten  up  your  will.  Say  to  yourself,  /  can;  1 
will!"  If  Anne  asked  her  how  to  spell  a  word,  the 
old  lady  told  her  to  hunt  it  up  in  the  dictionary.  She 
was  for  ever  educating  the  child  to  be  self-dependent. 
Hugh  found  his  old  companion  less  disposed  for  the 
frolics  of  early  morning,  and  more  unwilling  for  the 
quarrelsome  arguments  of  the  afternoon.  "Let's  be 
sensible,"  was  one  of  her  phrases.  He  was  amazed 
presently  to  find  that  she  laughed  at  him  for  being  a 
dunce.  When  she  preferred  sitting  with  her  grand- 
mother to  going  a  walk  with  him  on  the  sands,  he 
felt  the  insufficiency  of  the  feminine  sex.  He  wanted 
a  boy  friend. 

At  last  something  like  a  separation  occurred.  Hugh 
went  to  school  in  Edinburgh,  and  his  evenings  were 
spent  with  Ramsay  M' Gavin  preparing  his  home- 
work. The  children  only  saw  each  other  on  half- 
holidays,  which  they  sometimes  spent  together  on  the 
sea;  where  Hugh,  with  his  hand  on  the  tiller,  was 
far  too  occupied  in  talking  to  the  fisherman  who  held 
the  main-sheet  to  take  notice  of  Anne. 

Ramsay  M' Gavin  had  now  taken  his  degree  and 


THE   TWO   DESTINIES  43 

another  brass  plate,  which  made  his  bosom  swell  with 
pride  every  time  he  beheld  it,  was  at  last  fixed  to  the 
iron  gate  of  the  dead  doctor's  house.  But  M* Gavin 
earned  more  money  as  Hugh's  tutor  than  he  did  as 
a  doctor.  People  did  not  send  for  him;  his  circle  of 
acquaintance  was  small;  the  influence  of  Dr.  Ainslie 
was  not  exerted  in  his  behalf.  The  poor  fellow^  with 
his  immense  knowledge  of  medicine,  had  the  mortifi- 
cation of  sitting  in  his  room  waiting  for  patients  who 
never  came.  When  a  case  did  fall  into  his  hands, 
he  filled  a  note-book  with  his  comments  and  made 
a  fresh  study  of  the  authorities  with  critical  marginalia 
sufficient  to  fill  a  volume. 

Hugh  Napier  went  to  the  university.  He  had 
grown  away  from  Anne,  and  was  entirely  devoted  to 
his  dawning  manhood.  He  had  high  spirits,  great 
pluck,  and  the  blood  ran  hot  in  his  veins.  Among 
his  acquaintances  was  the  son  and  heir  of  Paton,  the 
engineer.  They  both  played  football ;  they  were  both 
fond  of  the  sea.  This  acquaintance  never  became  a 
real  friendship.  Dick  Paton  was  rich,  his  friends 
were  the  sons  of  rich  men,  and  he  was  older  than 
Hugh.  He  hated  work;  he  was  famous  for  adven- 
tures in  the  streets  of  Edinburgh;  he  boasted  of  the 
whisky  he  could  drink ;  he  told  stories  which  were  not 
nice.  But  Napier,  who  had  a  clean  and  healthy  mind, 
was  drawn  to  him  because  he  represented  Paton 's 
Engineering  Works,  and  because  he  possessed  a  small 
yacht  and  knew  a  good  deal  about  sailing.  They 
visited  the  works  together,  and  went  for  an  occasional 
cruise.  Napier  also  met  Paton  at  Dr.  Ainslie's  house 


44  THE   CAGE 

in  Darnaway  Street  on  Sunday  afternoons,  where 
Mrs.  Paton,  the  mother,  was  a  constant  visitor. 

One  day  Paton  said  to  Hugh,  inspired  by  his 
mother  to  ask  the  question,  "Are  you  any  relation 
of  Lord  Napier?" 

"No,"  said  Hugh. 

"  It's  not  a  common  name.     What's  your  father  ?  " 

It  was  the  first  question  of  the  kind  ever  addressed 
to  Hugh.  "He's  abroad,"  he  answered. 

He  noticed  that  Paton  avoided  him  after  this;  he 
also  noticed  that  other  students  began  to  look  at  him 
in  an  odd  way.  Paton  had  spread  the  story.  "Did 
you  ever  know  a  man,"  he  asked,  "who  described  his 
father's  profession  as  being  abroad  !  " 

Hugh  Napier  grew  sensitive.  At  this  time  he  was 
a  good-looking  boy,  tall,  slim,  square-shouldered, 
with  a  wonderful  lightness  of  limb  and  great  swiftness 
of  movement.  He  was  really  immensely  strong,  and 
his  constitution  was  that  of  a  workman.  He  played 
games  with  a  hot  earnestness.  He  hated  to  be  beaten. 
In  social  slippered  hours  he  was  cheerful  and  inclined 
to  quiet  laughter.  Sensitiveness  was  something  new 
to  him.  He  tried  to  fight  it.  He  sought  the  society 
of  fellow-students.  He  discovered  that  he  was  less 
self-conscious  with  Anne  than  with  these  men.  She 
was  now  living  in  Darnaway  Street,  and  he  saw  her 
there  on  many  occasions.  Now  and  then  they  would 
make  excursions  by  tram  to  Portobello,  and  go  over 
the  ground  of  their  childhood,  sailing  on  the  sea  in 
the  very  boat  of  their  old  cruises.  Anne  learned  to 
take  the  tiller  to  help  the  boat  in  a  gybe,  to  keep  her 


THE   TWO   DESTINIES  45 

in  the  wind.  "You'll  make  a  first-rate  sailor,"  Napier 
told  her. 

It  happened  once  that  when  they  returned  from 
one  of  these  outings,  the  servant  in  Darnaway  Street 
fold  Hugh  that  Dr.  Ainslie  wished  to  see  him  in  the 
consulting-room  immediately.  A  cab  was  waiting  at 
the  door,  and  Hugh  instantly  connected  this  mes- 
sage with  the  vehicle.  He  left  Anne  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs,  and  went  forward  to  the  doctor's  room 
with  a  feeling  of  crisis  in  his  heart. 

He  found  there  an  old  lady  in  black,  who  wore  a 
very  dark  veil  over  her  face.  Dr.  Ainslie  was  sitting 
at  his  table,  his  hands  in  his  lap,  his  grave  eyes  fixed 
upon  Napier. 

"You  sent  for  me,  sir?"  said  Hugh. 

The  doctor  turned  to  the  old  lady.  "This  is  the 
young  man,"  he  said. 

She  rose  from  her  chair,  and  placing  one  of  her 
hands  on  Hugh's  arm,  said  in  a  gentle  voice,  "Come 
to  the  window,  will  you  ?  "  and  led  him  forward.  She 
stood  in  front  of  him,  her  back  to  the  window,  and 
studied  his  face,  which  was  very  pale.  Hugh  felt 
her  fingers  working  against  his  arm,  and  behind  her 
heavy  veil  caught  sight  of  her  eyes  shining  darkly. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "he  is  rather  like."  Then,  letting 
her  hand  drop  from  his  arm,  she  said  more  briskly, 
looking  up  at  him,  squaring  her  shoulders  a  little, 
her  hands  crossed  in  front  of  her,  "Well,  Mr.  Napier, 
what  do  you  want  to  be  ?  " 

He  kept  silence,  too  surprised  by  the  question  to 
think. 


46  THE   CAGE 

"Come,"  she  said,  "what  profession  do  you  wish  to 
follow?" 

Still  he  was  silent. 

"You've  got  tastes,  I  suppose;  wishes,  inclinations. 
What  are  they  ?  " 

"I  should  like  to  go  to  sea,"  he  said. 

"To  sea  I     You're  too  old  for  the  Navy." 

"I'm  fond  of  the  sea,"  he  answered,  shifting  his 
position.  "I  shouldn't  mind  how  I  went  to  it." 

"  Would  you  like  to  emigrate  ?  " 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"People  are  very  happy  in  Canada,  and  New  Zea- 
land, and  places  like  that." 

He  was  silent. 

"Why  wouldn't  you  like  to  make  a  start  in  a  young 
country  ?  "  she  asked,  putting  her  hand  on  his  arm 
again,  and  moving  it  gently  up  and  down. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  and  glanced  at  the 
doctor. 

"You're  fond  of  the  sea?y 

"Yes." 

"Well,  we  must  think  about  it.  I'm  not  sure  that 
it  is  not  a  good  idea.  The  merchant  service  is  a 
vigorous  career  for  a  young  man." 

She  stood  looking  at  him  for  some  time  in  silence, 
and  then  she  walked  back  with  him  to  her  chair  beside 
the  doctor's  table,  her  hand  still  on  Hugh's  arm. 

"  Will  you  leave  us  for  a  moment  ?  "  she  said,  and 
Dr.  Ainslie  got  up  and  went  from  the  room. 

The  old  lady  stood  in  front  of  Hugh,  a  hand  on 
each  of  his  arms,  and  looked  up  at  him. 


THE   TWO   DESTINIES  47 

"I  will  do  what  I  can  to  make  you  happy,"  she 
said.  "I  will  help  you.  Tell  me,  now,  if  you  have 
been  happy  here  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Dr.  Ainslie  has  been  good  and  kind  to  you?" 

"Oh,  yes;  very  kind." 

"And  nothing  has  troubled  you?"  She  waited. 
"  Why  don't  you  answer  ?  " 

"Well,"  he  said,  and  hesitated. 

"Yes?" 

"I  don't  know  who  you  are?"  He  laughed  quite 
frankly. 

"I  am  an  old  friend  of  your  family.  You  can  tell 
me  everything." 

Hugh  became  serious  again.  "Well,"  he  said 
slowly,  "I  should  like  to  know  who  my  father  is. 
That  troubles  me." 

"  People  have  asked  you  ?  " 

"Yes." 

The  old  lady  considered.  "Tell  them  that  your 
father  is  dead,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  Is  he  ?  "  Hugh  asked,  looking  at  the  eyes  behind 
the  veil. 

"No,"  she  answered. 

"Shall  I  never  see  him?" 

"No." 

"You  cannot  tell  me  why?" 

"He  has  disgraced  himself." 

"Oughtn't  I,"  Hugh  asked,  after  a  pause,  "to  be 
with  him,  helping  him,  perhaps?" 

She  shook  her  head.     Something  in  the  handsome 


48  THE   CAGE 

boy's  face  touched  her.  "I  will  tell  you  something. 
I  am  the  mother  of  your  father.  He  is  my  youngest 
son.  I  once  loved  him  more  than  all  his  brothers. 
And  he  has  broken  my  heart.  You  don't  know  what 
that  means.  I  pray  God  that  you  never  may.  It 
is  more  than  a  phrase.  Now,  listen.  Never  try  to 
discover  your  father's  identity.  It  means  grief  and 
ruin  for  you.  Be  content  with  your  present  name. 
Make  your  own  life.  Live  it  out  like  a  man."  She 
pressed  her  hands  closer  to  his  arms.  "And  now  kiss 
me?  "  she  said. 

He  stooped  his  head,  and  kissed  her  through  the 
veil.  He  could  see  that  the  dark  eyes  behind  the  veil 
were  wet  with  tears. 

He  went  out,  strangely  shaken,  and  Dr.  Ainslie 
returned  to  the  room. 

For  some  weeks  Napier  lived  an  intensely  lonely 
life,  keeping  away  from  his  friends,  and  staying  away 
from  lectures.  His  high  spirits  deserted  him.  He 
realized  his  place  in  society.  The  grave  of  his  mother 
in  that  beautiful  Edinburgh  cemetery  which  lies 
beyond  the  Botanic  Gardens  haunted  his  thoughts 
and  filled  his  imagination  with  cruel  reflections  on 
his  origin.  He  was  a  man  under  the  law,  but  un- 
acknowledged by  the  law.  The  love  passion  of  his 
father  and  mother  had  become  his  crime.  Man,  as 
well  as  God,  visits  the  sins  of  the  fathers  upon  the 
children.  Society  asked  him  whence  he  came :  he 
could  not  answer.  Religion,  taking  into  sheltering 
arms  the  lawful  children  of  love  to  mark  them  with 
the  salvation  of  Mary's  Son,  frowned  darkly  upon 


THE   TWO   DESTINIES  49 

this  unlawful  son  of  love.  He  could  never  enter  freely 
the  ways  of  men ;  never  find  an  abiding  place  in  their 
homes.  The  most  innocent  question  would  disclose 
his  shame;  the  lightest  word  bring  hot  blood  to  his 
brow.  He  was  different.  A  man  like  unto  other 
men,  he  found  himself  an  outlaw  of  society.  The 
most  stinging  word  in  the  dictionary  was  his  title. 

He  met  Paton  one  day,  who  stopped  him  in  the 
street,  and  said,  "  I  hear  you  are  going  away,  Napier ; 
is  that  true  ?  " 

"I'm  thinking  of  it." 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry.  We  shall  miss  you.  Where  are 
you  going  ? — to  look  for  your  father  ?  " 

"What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Napier,  very  quietly. 

"You  told  me  he  was  abroadt"  answered  Paton. 
"Don't  you  remember?" 

This  encounter  kept  Napier  away  from  the  house 
in  Darnaway  Street,  where  Paton  was  now  a  constant 
visitor.  He  walked  often  along  the  Queen's  Drive 
and  climbed  to  Arthur's  Seat;  or  wandered  to  the  top 
of  Calton  Hill  and,  looking  northward,  rested  his 
troubled  gaze  upon  the  mist-wreathed  peak  of  Ben 
Lomond,  swimming  like  a  cloud  above  the  haze  of  the 
sea.  It  was  to  the  sea  that  his  eyes  looked  most  hope- 
fully— the  unfenced,  churchless  and  triumphant  sea, 
which  is  supreme  in  its  freedom  from  the  little  tyran- 
nies of  humanity ;  the  great  sea  promised  him  all  that 
his  fellow-man  refused.  It  would  ask  him  no  ques- 
tions ;  would  care  nothing  for  his  origin ;  and  it  would 
call  out  in  him  all  those  qualities  of  his  character 
which  witnessed  to  a  full  manhood.  Out  there — in 

B 


5d  THE   CAGE 

the  heave  of  trie  great  dark  waters  and  the  rush  and 
music  of  the  winds — there  was  solitude  with  labour, 
labour  with  delight,  and  delight  with  adventure.  To 
be  still,  to  abide  in  a  city,  to  hang  on  the  skirts  of  little 
groups,  coteries,  and  families — this  was  impossible. 
The  sea  called  with  the  cheerful  voice  of  adventure. 
The  very  thought  of  it  revived  his  high  spirits. 

One  day  he  received  a  letter  from  Dr.  Ainslie  tell- 
ing him  to  call  in  Darnaway  Street.  The  time  had 
come  for  Hugh  to  take  his  life  into  his  own  hands. 
Dr.  Ainslie  had  said  to  his  wife,  "I  see  young  Paton 
with  Anne  a  great  deal.  There  must  be  nothing  of 
that  kind.  His  father  died  a  drunkard.  The  young 
man  is  making  a  bad  start.  You  must  keep  Anne 
from  any  attachment  there,  as  you  would  keep  her 
from  infection." 

"But  she  must  see  men,"  Mrs.  Ainslie  had  returned, 
"it  would  not  do  for  her  to  see  only  this  mysterious 
young  Napier."  That  remark  had  set  the  doctor 
thinking. 

Hugh  presented  himself,  and  the  great  physician 
noticed  a  change  in  him.  "What  is  the  matter  with 
you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"My  parents,"  answered  Napier. 

The  doctor  spoke  brave  and  sincere  words  to  him. 
"And  now,"  he  concluded,  "what  I  advise  you  to  do 
is  to  take  your  degree — don't  be  beaten  by  the 
University — and  then  travel.  Travel  will  do  you  good. 
If  you  like,  Ramsay  M* Gavin  could  go  with  you. 
He  can  do  nothing  in  Portobello,  and  he  is  waiting 
now  to  purchase  a  practice  in  England.  If  you  like, 


THE   TWO   DESTINIES  51 

you  can  have  his  company.  If  not,  go  alone.  See 
the  world.  Move  with  men  of  other  nations.  Observe 
and  reflect.  Form  your  judgments,  and  be  interested 
in  the  human  race.  You  will  have  means  enough  to 
travel  at  your  leisure.  Your  mother  saved  some 
money  for  you,  and  your  father  left  with  me  a  sum 
of  money  which  has  accumulated,  and  now  represents, 
with  the  other,  an  income  of  eighty  pounds  a  year. 
The  lady  whom  you  saw  here  the  other  day " 

"My  father's  mother?" 

"She  told  you  then?  Well,  yes;  your  grand- 
mother; she  has  placed  in  my  hands  certain  stock 
which  will  increase  this  income  to  three  hundred 
pounds  a  year.  You  can  draw  on  the  Royal  Bank 
for  that  amount,  and  they  will  receive  your  dividends 
for  you.  There  is  a  sum  of  a  hundred  pounds  stand- 
ing to  your  credit,  on  which  you  can  draw  for  making 
a  start  in  life.  If  anything  should  happen  to  me  and 
you  should  need  legal  advice  at  any  time  you  can 
call  upon  David  Caverton,  Writer  to  the  Signet,  in 
St.  Andrew  Square.  Keep  him  informed  of  your 
movements.  Mr.  Caverton  knows  what  I  know  about 
you,  what  Mrs.  Ainslie,  Mrs.  Dobson  and  Anne  know 
about  you — that  you  are  the  son  of  a  patient  of  mine 
who  is  dead,  and  whose  relations  in  England  are 
disposed  to  be  kind  to  you.  They  know  this,  and 
nothing  more."  The  old  man,  who  had  spoken  with 
the  precision  and  coldness  of  a  lawyer,  rose  from  his 
chair.  He  stood  looking  at  Napier  with  grave,  ques- 
tioning eyes,  the  corners  of  his  lips  firmly  depressed. 
Then  he  slowly  extended  his  hand,  which  Napier  took 

B  2 


52  THE   CAGE 

mechanically.  "Remember,"  said  the  doctor,  holding 
his  hand,  "you  are  a  man.  You  were  born  like  every 
other  man.  In  the  sight  of  God  you  are  one  with 
the  rest  of  the  world.  Nothing  can  make  a  human 
being  illegitimate.  Keep  your  head  up;  look  men 
in  the  face;  do  something  with  your  life." 

Napier  looked  up  with  a  quick  and  merry  smile, 
which  reminded  the  doctor  of  the  boy's  bright  child- 
hood in  Portobello.  The  money  had  changed  the 
colour  of  his  horizon.  "I'll  do  my  best,  sir,"  he 
said.  "I  certainly  don't  mean  to  mope.  At  the  same 
time,  I  am  different ;  and  different  I  shall  have  to  be  to 
the  end  of  my  chapter.  For  instance " 

"Well?" 

"Suppose,  just  suppose,"  said  Napier  slowly,  and 
quite  diffidently,  but  with  an  amused  smile,  "that  I 
was " 

"Well?" 

"Well,  that  I  was  in  love  with  Miss  Ainslie,"  he 
said,  with  a  laugh.  He  looked  towards  the  window. 
"It  is  a  pure  hypothesis.  But  you  see  what  I  mean, 
sir?" 

He  looked  quickly  at  the  doctor,  and  then  looked 
away  again.  He  disengaged  his  hand.  He  half- 
turned  to  the  door.  "No,  sir,"  he  said,  "I  realize  that 
I  am  different.  But  I'm  in  good  spirits.  I'm  glad 
of  this  money.  I  know  what  I  shall  do.  I  shall  buy 
a  boat  and  go  a  cruise.  A  degree  is  useless  to  me. 
I  shan't  stay  in  Edinburgh.  I  shan't  trouble  cities 
very  much.  But  I  should  like  sometimes  to  come  back 
and  see  you.  I  want  to  do  that.  I  should  pass  my 


THE   TWO   DESTINIES  53 

father  in  the  street  without  recognizing  him;  I'd  go 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  do  your  bidding.  You've 
been  splendid  to  me.  I  owe  you  everything,  except 
my  doubtful  origin." 

He  walked  to  the  door,  Ainslie  at  his  side.  The 
doctor  held  out  his  hand  once  more.  The  boy,  taking 
that  strong  hand  looked  up  again  into  the  austere, 
pale  face  of  the  big  old  man,  and  again  uttered  his 
farewell  and  his  gratitude.  He  knew  the  doctor  hated 
flattery,  and  concluded  with  a  smile,  "In  my  father's 
name,  which  I  don't  know,  and  in  my  own,  I  thank 
you,  sir,  for  all  your  goodness." 

"God  bless  you,  Hugh  Napier,"  said  the  doctor 
slowly.  Then  he  added,  "Don't  lose  sight  of  us. 
Come  here  whenever  you  wish." 

Napier  said  to  himself,  as  he  walked  past  the  Queen 
Street  Gardens,  "That  man  loves  me,  but  he  would 
not  let  me  marry  his  daughter !  "  This  thought  stuck 
in  his  mind.  It  did  not  promise  well  for  the  future. 
But  he  was  in  high  spirits.  He  could  get  to  sea. 

He  paid  a  visit  to  Ramsay  M 'Gavin,  and  found  that 
solemn  man  overseeing  a  workman,  who  was  remov- 
ing the  brass  plate  from  the  iron  railings  of  the  house. 
"Through  Dr.  Ainslie's  bounty,"  said  M 'Gavin, 
"I'm  purchasing  a  verra  decent  practice  in  a  place 
called  Borhaven  on  the  Norfolk  coast.  You  must 
come  on  a  visit  to  me,  Hugh ;  if  you've  the  time  and 
the  inclination."  He  produced  with  slow  dignity  a 
visiting-card  on  which  was  printed,  not  engraved, 
"Dr.  Ramsay  M'Gavin,  M.D.,  M.A.  Edin.,  Church 
House,  Borhaven!  Norfolk." 


54  THE   CAGE 

Here  at  least  was  a  friend.  Napier  was  surprised 
to  find  himself  grateful  for  the  existence  of  a  man  who 
had  once  teased  his  life.  He  put  it  down  to  his  high 
spirits ;  placed  the  card  in  his  pocket-book  and  thought 
no  more  about  it. 

One  day,  towards  the  end  of  his  preparations, 
Napier  paid  a  last  visit  to  his  mother's  grave.  As  he 
drew  near  to  the  familiar  spot  he  was  startled  to  see 
a  beautiful  wreath  of  white  and  violet  flowers  resting 
on  the  stone.  He  approached  the  grave,  and  bending 
down  saw  a  card  attached  to  the  flowers,  on  which  was 
written  in  a  masculine  hand  the  one  word,  "Souvenir," 
followed  by  the  initial  "A." 

He  felt  an  overmastering  conviction  that  his  father 
had  visited  the  grave.  His  heart  began  to  beat 
rapidly.  His  lungs  became  oppressed.  He  raised  his 
head  from  the  grave  and  looked  about  him,  to  the 
north,  to  the  south,  to  the  east,  to  the  west.  There 
were  groups  of  people  scattered  over  this  garden  of 
graves ;  a  man  in  shirt-sleeves  was  wheeling  a  barrow, 
laden  with  grave-diggers'  tools,  over  some  planks 
which  led  from  grave  to  gravel  path;  a  widow  was 
weeding  a  patch  of  flowers ;  two  children  were  running 
down  one  of  the  paths,  calling  to  each  other. 

The  father  whom  he  would  pass  in  the  street,  had 
visited  this  place,  was  now  somewhere  within  the  little 
radius  of  Edinburgh — for  the  flowers  were  quite  fresh 
— and  the  son  could  not  reach  him. 

That  evening  he  went  to  Dr.  Ainslie's  house.  The 
servant  asked  him  to  go  to  the  drawing-room.  He 
hesitated,  thinking  that  he  should  ask  to  see  the  doctor 


THE   TWO   DESTINIES  55 

alone.  Then  he  thought  that  he  might  as  well  say 
good-bye  to  the  other  members  of  the  family,  and 
went  up  the  stairs. 

The  Patons  were  there.  Mrs.  Paton  sat  with  Mrs. 
Ainslie  on  a  sofa  near  the  windows.  Mrs.  Dobson 
was  playing  a  game  of  cribbage  with  the  doctor. 
"I'm  not  supposed  to  be  very  well,"  said  Ainslie; 
"this  is  Mrs.  Dobson's  prescription;  homoeopathic!  " 
Anne  was  seated  at  the  piano,  not  playing,  but  look- 
ing over  a  volume  of  music  which  Dick  Paton  was 
holding  in  his  hand,  turning  the  leaves  and  saying, 
"Oh,  sing  this;  I  like  this;  this  is  a  jolly  thing;  a 
stunner;  do  sing  it." 

Napier  had  come  to  ask  the  doctor  about  his  father, 
to  tell  him  about  the  flowers  on  the  grave.  The  scene 
in  the  drawing-room,  a  scene  of  comfortable  family 
life,  put  the  thought  out  of  his  head. 

He  said  that  he  had  come  to  say  good-bye;  that 
he  was  going  down  to  Lowestoft  in  a  day  or  two's 
time  to  look  at  a  boat;  and  that  he  would  do  some 
cruising  before  he  returned.  "Lowestoft,"  said  the 
doctor;  "M'Gavin's  down  in  that  neighbourhood, 
somewhere  thereabouts." 

He  only  stayed  for  half-an-hour ;  but  just  before 
he  rose  to  go  there  was  an  incident  which  delayed 
his  departure.  Mrs.  Dobson  suddenly  exclaimed, 
"Why,  Robert,  what's  the  matter  with  you?"  Anne 
hastened  with  a  little  cry  to  her  father's  side.  Every- 
body got  up.  "Ring  the  bell,  Hugh,"  said  Mrs. 
Ainslie.  The  doctor,  who  was  very  white,  with  a 
thick  perspiration  on  his  forehead,  and  his  chin  hang- 


56  THE   CAGE 

ing  a  little,  said  in  a  resolute  voicet  "Put  me  to  bed. 
Don't  make  a  fuss.  Put  me  to  bed." 

Napier  waited  till  the  old  man  had  been  put  safely 
to  bed.  The  Patons  left  a  little  before  him.  He  did 
not  see  Anne,  who  remained  with  her  father.  Mrs. 
Ainslie  brought  him  the  news  that  the  doctor  was 
easier.  "A  good  night  will  restore  him,"  she  said. 

As  he  left  the  house  a  man  crossed  the  street  to- 
wards him.  They  almost  brushed  shoulders.  The 
man  did  not  look  at  him,  for  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  door  of  the  doctor's  house.  Napier  scarcely  saw 
him,  for  his  mind  was  entirely  occupied  by  this 
anxious  and  distressing  event  of  which  he  had  just 
been  a  witness.  They  passed  each  other,  the  son 
going  down  to  Edinburgh,  the  father  standing  at  the 
door  of  Dr.  Ainslie's  house,  where  Death  was 
knocking. 

Before  midnight  the  Spectre  entered.  A  globule 
of  blood  stopped  the  working  of  that  capable  brain. 

Napier  attended  the  funeral.  Among  the  vast  con- 
gregation in  the  cemetery  was  his  father. 

The  doctor  left  to  his  widow  the  house  and  furni- 
ture in  Darnaway  Street  and  an  income  of  five 
hundred  pounds  a  year,  with  reversion  to  his  daugh- 
ter. To  Anne  he  left  an  income  of  one  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  a  year.  His  will  expressed  the  testator's 
desire  to  preserve  his  wife  and  child  from  the  perils  of 
riches  and  the  pains  of  poverty.  There  were  no  fewer 
than  sixteen  hundred  beneficiaries  under  this  remark- 
able will,  most  of  them  poor  people  liviftg  in  Cannon- 
gate  and  Cowgate, 


THE    TWO    DESTINIES  57 

After  the  death  of  the  great  physician,  Mrs.  Ainslie, 
whose  indignation  over  the  doctor's  will  increased 
with  every  year  of  her  widowhood,  set  herself  to  secure 
Dick  Paton  as  a  husband  for  Anne.  The  beautiful 
girl,  who  could  not  bear  to  hear  her  mother's  miser- 
able strictures  on  the  dead  father  whom  she  had  loved 
devotedly,  welcomed,  when  the  period  of  mourning 
was  over,  every  distraction  which  carried  her  away 
from  home.  She  went  on  a  visit  to  the  Paton 's 
country  house  in  Ross-shire.  She  enjoyed  driving  and 
sailing  with  Dick  Paton.  It  gave  her  pleasure  to  go 
with  him  to  the  stables,  to  the  home  farm,  to  the 
distant  cottages  of  keepers.  She  came  from  the 
school-room  and  the  limitations  of  narrow  circum- 
stances to  the  luxury,  ease,  and  diversions  of  bound- 
less wealth.  She  was  very  young.  She  found  life 
a  good  thing.  Mrs.  Paton  was  like  a  mother  to  her. 
She  bought  her  beautiful  dresses,  made  her  presents 
of  jewelry  and  lace,  treated  her  with  all  the  endearing 
indulgence  of  a  favourite. 

This  genial,  good-natured  soul  was  really  fond  of 
Anne;  but  above  all  other  things  she  desired  that 
her  headstrong  son  should  settle  down.  He  was 
living  a  dangerous  life.  The  mother,  who  had  nursed 
her  husband  through  endless  attacks  of  alcoholism, 
saw  that  Dick  was  fond  of  Anne,  and  she  determined 
that  Anne  should  be  his  rescue.  Anne  was  extremely 
pretty ;  she  was  beginning  to  arouse  admiration  in 
Edinburgh ;  she  was  distinguished-looking,  and 
charming.  Mrs.  Paton  took  the  child  into  her 
embrace,  mothered  her,  fondled  her  and  mortgaged 


58  THE   CAGE 

the  beautiful  heart  with  a  hundred  favours.  Then 
when  Dick  proposed,  and  Anne,  in  her  ignorance  of 
the  world,  hesitated,  Mrs.  Paton  embraced  her,  and 
said,  "He  loves  you.  He  is  breaking  his  heart  for 
you.  Don't  be  cruel;  don't  be  hard-hearted,  Anne." 

While  Anne,  fresh  from  the  school-room  and  with 
only  the  smallest  acquaintance  among  men,  was  yield- 
ing to  this  appeal,  for  she  liked  Dick  Paton,  and  only 
a  trifling  uncertainty  held  her  back,  Mrs.  Ainslie 
said  to  her,  "How  can  you  hesitate?  You  profess 
to  be  so  fond  of  your  father,  and  this  is  the  marriage 
that  he  wished  you  to  make."  She  carried  that  lie 
to  heaven. 

At  the  age  of  nineteen,  Ann&  was  married  to 
Richard  Paton.  Everybody  told  her  she  was  a  lucky 
girl.  She  felt  excessively  happy. 

"It  is  a  great  thing  for  a  girl,"  Mrs.  Ainslie  said 
to  one  of  her  friends,  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction, 
"to  be  married  in  her  teens.  Catch  the  bird  young, 
and  it  gets  used  to  the  cage." 


CHAPTER    III 

THE  BIRD   WITHIN 

EVERY  now  and  then  the  Divorce  Court  startles  the 
world  with  what  newspapers  appropriately  call  revela- 
tions. A  curtain  is  drawn  away  from  the  Incredible. 
Virtuous  people  are  horrified;  the  disreputable  thank 
God  that  they  are  not  as  other  men.  For  a  few  days 
English  society  is  agitated  by  new  knowledge. 

These  revelations,  however,  constitute  the  custom- 
ary and  familiar  conditions  of  a  great  many  people's 
lives.  They  appear  to  them,  too,  perfectly  natural 
until  they  are  removed  for  a  brief  hour  from  the 
social  world  to  the  dissecting-room  of  the  law  courts, 
and  even  then  the  effect  is  only  that  of  conscience 
turning  over  in  its  sleep.  The  number  of  people  who 
have  no  moral  principles,  who  acknowledge  no  author- 
ity over  their  wills,  and  recognize  no  responsibility 
in  life  is  not  only  very  great,  but  tends  to  increase 
every  day  in  a  society  whose  entire  activities  belong 
exclusively  to  the  material  sphere.  There  are  philo- 
sophers clear-sighted  enough  to  perceive,  and  honest 
enough  to  admit,  that  the  negation  of  religion  leads 
logically  and  definitely  to  the  negation  of  moral 
principles.  The  wonder  is  that  society  is  not  worse. 

59 


60  THE   CAGE 

These  devoted  materialists,  who  have  no  occupations, 
can  see  no  purpose  in  the  universe;  their  habitual 
gluttony  obfuscates  their  souls;  they  shrug  their 
shoulders  at  the  idea  of  God;  respectability  wears  in 
their  eyes  the  ludicrous  garment  of  provincialism ; 
they  have  no  check  to  their  passions,  ambitions,  and 
desires  other  than  those  afforded  by  the  limitation  of 
their  purses  and  the  capacities  of  their  physical 
energy.  If  there  was  no  want  or  suffering  in  the 
world,  the  lives  of  these  people  would  be  merely 
stupid ;  as  it  is  they  are  crimes.  If  there  was  no  God 
these  people  would  be  only  fools;  as  it  is  they  are 
devils.  Their  repentance  is  boredom,  their  remorse 
is  satiety.  The  incredible  which  startles  us  is  the 
inevitable.  Everything  base  is  possible  to  these 
people.  "The  Possible  is  a  terrible  matrix." 

Anne  Paton  found  herself  in  a  world  which  first 
amazed  her,  then  horrified  her,  and  afterwards  dis- 
gusted her.  It  was  a  world  which  the  Divorce  Court 
has  now  made  familiar  and  which  has  therefore  ceased 
to  be  incredible.  Her  story  begins  from  the  moment 
when  this  world  had  become  intolerable.  What  has 
gone  before  is  necessary  to  understand  what  follows. 

When  she  left  her  husband  it  was  with  the  inno- 
cence of  her  childhood  torn  away,  the  gaiety  of  her 
youth  silenced,  the  confusion  of  early  womanhood 
brought  to  definite  knowledge.  But  her  character 
remained  unaltered.  She  was  still  the  daughter  of 
Robert  Ainslie.  Her  spirit  was  fearless,  confident, 
and  self-reliant.  Her  heart  was  not  broken,  her  will 
was  not  weakened.  She  was  the  child  of  the  Porto- 


THE   BIRD   WITHIN  61 

bello  sands,  quiet,  contemplative,  gentle,  tender, 
caressing,  full  of  grace  and  apparently  pliant,  but 
self-directed,  conscious  of  right  and  wrong,  in  com- 
mand of  her  feelings. 

Robert  Ainslie  had  said  to  her  governess,  "The 
Bible,  but  no  dogma."  Anne  was  not  religious,  but 
she  was  wholesome. 

In  the  early  days  of  her  marriage,  the  days  of  her 
amazement,  Richard  Paton  had  laughed  at  her;  later, 
in  the  days  of  her  horror,  when  she  pleaded  and 
appealed  to  him,  he  had  shown  impatience;  finally, 
in  the  days  of  her  disgust,  he  had  answered  her  remon- 
strance with  indifference  which  was  dismissal. 

There  was  no  final  rupture,  no  definite  moment  of 
separation.  Her  appeals  had  been  in  vain,  her  re- 
monstrance had  effected  nothing;  they  separated  in 
their  dispositions  before  they  avoided  each  other's 
society.  It  was  this  avoidance  which  grew  into  defin- 
ite separation. 

Anne  was  happy  in  the  companionship  of  her 
grandmother,  who  had  come  to  live  with  her  six 
months  after  her  marriage.  This  little  old  lady,  who 
looked  at  life  with  amusement  and  discussed  it  with 
irony,  was  a  friending  and  strengthening  presence  in 
the  first  months  of  Anne's  disillusion.  She  kept  her 
granddaughter's  mind  healthily  vigorous.  She  would 
allow  of  no  brooding.  Instead  of  condemning  Richard 
Paton  she  laughed  at  him.  Instead  of  advising 
mutiny  she  counselled  compromise.  "Your  marriage 
is  not  a  success,"  she  said,  "but  it  might  have  been 
worse.  That  is  one  of  the  advantages  of  being  a 


62  THE   CAGE 

lady;  our  husbands  don't  kick  us.  Richard  is  dis- 
agreeable, but  harmless.  In  a  cottage,  with  hobnails, 
he  would  be  terrible." 

Mrs.  Dobson  favoured  the  plan  of  avoidance.  "Mar- 
ried people  with  more  than  one  house,"  she  explained, 
"can  practise  a  Box  and  Cox  arrangement  without 
any  trouble.  We  can  go  to  London  when  Richard 
and  his  Corybantic  crew  are  in  Ross-shire;  and  we 
can  go  to  Ross-shire  when  he  is  in  London.  You 
are  only  hit  in  the  matter  of  the  seasons.  He  will 
have  the  pick." 

Mrs.  Ainslie  gradually  supplanted  Anne  as  the 
hostess  of  Richard  Paton.  The  widow  of  Dr.  Ainslie 
liked  cheerful  people,  she  was  really  blind  to  iniquity 
in  fine  clothes,  in  the  conduct  of  her  rich  son-in-law 
she  could  see  nothing  to  disgust  a  wife  or  offend 
society;  she  condemned  Anne  for  what  she  called 
fanciful  ideas,  and  reminded  her  with  no  little  elo- 
quence of  her  marriage  vows.  She  made  her  maternity 
a  pulpit  from  which  she  preached  a  perpetual  sermon 
on  the  Fifth  Commandment. 

Five  years  after  marriage,  when  she  was  four-and- 
twenty,  Anne  tired  of  the  Box  and  Cox  arrangement. 
She  wanted  to  be  free  of  Mrs.  Ainslie  who  scolded 
her,  and  of  Mrs.  Paton  who  was  offended  because 
she  had  neither  checked  Richard's  excesses  nor  given 
him  an  heir;  she  wanted,  too,  to  possess  some  little 
place  which  should  be  entirely  her  own,  some  plot  of 
earth  which  she  could  call  home,  some  anchorage 
where  she  could  be  free. 

This    anxiety    was    increased    by    the    growing 


THE    BIRD   WITHIN  63 

infirmities  of  old  Mrs.  Dobson,  who  was  ill  in 
London  and  who  began  to  suffer  from  long  railway 
journeys. 

One  of  the  few  friends  of  her  girlhood  with  whom 
Anne  had  maintained  any  intimacy  was  Ramsay 
M' Gavin.  He  had  stayed  once  or  twice,  on  his  visits 
to  London,  at  her  house  in  Wilton  Crescent.  Anne 
had  met  him  once  in  Paris,  where  he  had  gone  for  a 
celebration  in  honour  of  Pasteur.  He  was  pleasant  to 
her  because  he  represented  the  past.  She  liked  him 
because  he  interested  her  in  serious  things.  The  tutor 
of  Hugh  Napier  had  become  the  family  doctor,  the 
scientific  investigator,  the  politician,  the  philosopher, 
the  serious  citizen  of  a  great  empire,  the  watchful  dis- 
ciple of  progress.  He  wore  a  perpetual  frock-coat,  close- 
buttoned  ;  his  collar  was  wide  at  the  throat ;  his  cravat 
never  deviated  from  black;  his  face  was  dour.  Mrs. 
Dobson  entangled  his  slow-working  mind  with  ques- 
tions not  the  less  searching  for  their  quality  of  per- 
siflage ;  she  was  quick  to  see  that  he  had  no  originality, 
that  he  formed  himself  upon  the  model  of  Dr.  Ainslie, 
that  his  atheism  and  socialism  were  born  of  the  labor- 
atory and  the  study,  not  of  the  world.  It  diverted 
her  to  break  up  his  imposing  syllogisms  and  his 
grandiose  inductions  with  the  first  stick  picked  from 
the  littered  ground  of  human  experience.  She,  too, 
liked  Ramsay  M'Gavin.  He  amused  her. 

A  visit  had  been  paid  by  the  two  ladies  to  Borhaven, 
where  Dr.  M'Gavin,  whose  mother  kept  house  for 
him,  felt  the  pulse  and  examined  the  tongue  of 
humanity  with  "the  air  of  his  own  Statue  erected  by 


64  THE   CAGE 

National  Subscription."  Norfolk  was  Mrs.  Dobson'sJ 
native  county;  she  had  been  well  in  Borhaven.  Anne 
had  felt  the  charm  of  this  little  fishing  town,  with 
its  ancient  houses,  its  wide  sands,  its  broad  river,  its 
wooded  hills,  and  its  wild  commons  yellow  with  gorse 
and  purple  with  heather. 

When  the  idea  came  to  her  of  independence  she 
thought  of  Borhaven. 

In  reply  to  her  letter,  Dr.  M' Gavin  wrote  to  say 
that  there  was  only  one  empty  house  which  would 
suit  her,  and  unfortunately  this  cottage  was  nearly 
two  miles  from  the  town.  He  sent  a  careful  plan  of 
the  house,  with  exact  measurements  of  the  rooms, 
passages,  and  staircases,  but  enclosed  no  photograph 
and  gave  no  description  of  the  garden.  It  had  been, 
he  said,  the  dwelling  of  an  old  woman  whose  son  was 
the  principal  grocer  in  the  town ;  she  had  died  a  year 
ago,  of  no  infectious  disease.  The  drains  were  satis- 
factory. This  little  house, -where  the  old  lady  had 
liked  to  entertain  her  grandchildren  in  the  summer, 
was  situated  on  the  side  of  a  creek  opening  from  the 
river,  about  a  mile  above  the  town.  It  was  well  built ; 
the  owner,  who  had  been  rich,  had  spent  a  great  deal 
of  money  on  the  fittings;  the  only  fault  with  the  little 
place  was  its  distance  from  the  town  and  the  absence 
of  a  road  to  the  door.  The  rent  was  £20  a  year ;  the 
local  taxes  amounted  to  £3  los. 

Anne  went  to  Borhaven  with  her  camera,  ancl  re- 
turned to  London  satisfied  and  persuasive.  Mrs. 
Dobson  listened  to  her  descriptions,  and  when  the 
pictures  came  from  the  photographer,  examined  them 


THE    BIRD   WITHIN  65 

carefully  through  a  magnifying-glass.  "If  the 
chimneys  don't  smoke  and  the  walls  are  not  damp," 
she  said,  "it  will  do  very  well  for  me  to  die  in." 

"  We  shall  be  able  to  live  on  my  own  money,"  said 
Anne.    "  We  are  free." 


CHAPTER   IV 

BORHAVEN 

THE  town  of  Borhaven,  thanks  to  the  nine  miles 
which  separate  it  from  the  railway,  has  preserved  in 
its  outward  aspect  the  antique,  cheerful,  and  humor- 
ous spirit  of  our  ancestors.  The  sunny  harbour  at  the 
mouth  of  the  river,  with  its  stump  of  a  lighthouse,  its 
loose  and  slippery  wooden  steps,  its  weed-slimed 
piles,  its  barges  and  fishing-smacks,  its  tarred  sheds 
and  its  litter  of  gear,  looks  as  if  it  had  been  knocked 
together  for  the  scenery  of  a  theatre.  The  red-faced 
fishermen  who  lounge  there  in  blue  jerseys  and  vast 
sea-boots  which  creak  when  they  walk,  are  the  true  old- 
fashioned  children  of  the  North  Sea ;  they  are  remark- 
able not  for  good  looks  and  vigour,  but  for  strength, 
cheerfulness,  reliability.  Their  full  faces,  burned  by 
the  sun  and  tanned  by  the  wind,  round,  full  faces  lit 
by  little  twinkling  eyes  and  decorated  with  oiled  hair, 
present  themselves  before  one  stolidly  with  the  self- 
conscious  but  contented  comedy  of  a  pantomime  mask. 
This  is,  indeed,  one  of  the  places  which  has  escaped 
the  thunders  and  the  rushings  of  modern  progress. 
The  streets  are  dark  and  tortuous;  the  gabled  houses 

lean   and   stoop   and   slant   with   the   irregularity   of 

66 


BORHAVEN  67 

tombstones;  the  iron-rimmed  wheels  of  fish-barrow 
and  farmer's  tumbril  grind  out  a  perpetual  clatter 
from  the  cobble-stones.  And  there  is  something  of 
antiquity  in  the  odours  of  the  place. 

The  shops  have  cellar-flaps  in  the  pavement,  and 
dark  interiors  a  step  below  the  level  of  the  street;  in 
their  polished  windows,  full  of  good  wares,  one's 
reflection  catches  a  look  of  settled  prosperity.  The 
bow-windowed  inns,  with  beflowered  porches  and 
trees  in  tubs  at  the  side  of  the  broad  doors,  look  like 
souvenirs  of  the  stage-coach.  On  market  days  the 
principal  square  of  the  town,  which  has  a  poultry- 
cross  in  the  centre  and  at  one  of  the  corners  a  little 
timbered  and  diamond-paned  moot-hall,  is  crowded 
with  carriers'  carts  from  twenty  neighbouring  villages. 
In  the  months  of  summer  the  inns  and  even  the  cot- 
tages are  filled  with  visitors,  and  it  is  at  this  time 
that  the  numerous  shops  which  deal  in  old  furniture 
and  prints  make  their  harvest  for  the  winter. 

Through  the  open  doors  of  the  little  houses,  a 
visitor  sees  as  he  saunters  through  the  narrow  streets, 
dark  interiors  peopled  by  children  playing  on  the 
stone  floors,  and  ancient  dames  in  cap  and  apron, 
knitting  or  nodding  in  grandfather  chairs  beside  the 
hearth.  In  the  gardens  at  the  backs  of  their  humble 
dwellings  he  sees  women  busy  at  the  wash-tub  or 
fastening  with  wooden  pins  clean  linen  to  a  rope 
strung  across  potatoes  and  currant  bushes.  Cats  doze 
on  garden  walls.  The  cackle  of  poultry  fills  the  air. 
A  dog's  angry  bark  and  the  metallic  rattle  of  its  jerked 
chain  occasionally  strike  across  the  more  peaceable 
pa 


68  THE   CAGE 

sounds  of  humming  insects  and  mothers  singing  to 
their  babes.  From  the  beer-houses  issue,  with  the 
smell  of  ale  and  tobacco,  the  deep-toned  buzz  of  sea- 
faring argument,  and  from  morning  to  night  one  sees 
in  the  bright  interiors  of  these  little  places  a  cluster 
of  humanity  clad  in  reefer  coats  and  peaked  caps, 
decorated  with  gold  rings  in  their  ears.  The  pave- 
ment of  the  square  is  generally  thronged  by  people. 
Pilots  and  bargemen  and  the  wives  of  fishermen  move 
there,  with  ladies  who  have  ridden  in  on  bicycles 
from  neighbouring  villages  to  exchange  their  books 
at  the  library  or  to  make  household  purchases  at  other 
shops.  Obliging  tradesmen  in  white  aprons,  with 
pencils  behind  their  ears,  step  quickly  from  behind 
counters  to  take  the  orders  of  rich  ladies  seated  in  old- 
fashioned  landaus  at  the  shop  door.  There  is  often  a 
procession  of  farm  carts  passing  through  the  square 
with  hay,  corn,  beans,  or  peas  for  barges  moored 
against  the  side  of  the  quay.  The  centre  of  the 
square,  with  its  white-railed  cattle-pens  for  market 
day,  is  usually  occupied  by  children  whose  noisy 
play  is  scarcely  noticed  in  the  continual  rumble  of 
wheels  over  the  cobble-stones. 

The  conservative  character  of  the  little  town  is  due 
not  only  to  its  distance  from  the  railway.  The 
country  round  is  before  everything  else  a  game  estate. 
The  landlord  sets  his  face  against  building  houses. 

In  this  way,  while  the  picturesque  character  of  the 
town  is  saved  from  the  ugliness  of  the  modern  builder, 
there  is  below  the  gracious  and  charming  appearance 
of  the  archaic  place  an  undercurrent  of  unhappiness 


BORHAVEN  69 

and  immorality.  The  place  is  stagnant.  At  the  will 
of  one  man,  movement  is  arrested.  Young  men  are 
unable  to  marry  because  there  are  no  houses  for  them 
to  occupy.  The  daughters  of  fishermen  and  labourers 
bring  up  children  with  the  help  of  their  mothers,  in 
the  houses  of  their  own  fathers.  It  is  possible  to 
exaggerate  the  vice  and  to  forget  the  virtue  of  this 
place;  but  the  immorality  exists  and  is  persistent. 
All  the  efforts  of  religion  to  prevent  this  state  of 
affairs  have  failed. 

Anne  had  felt  the  charm  of  Borhaven  when  for 
the  first  time  she  and  Mrs.  Dobson  had  taken  up 
their  quarters  in  the  Harbour  Hotel,  an  ancient  struc- 
ture, half  wood  and  half  white  brick,  whose  bow- 
windows  overlook  the  quay,  and  are  sometimes 
drenched  by  the  spray  of  the  North  Sea. 

She  had  stood  at  the  bow-window  of  her  bedroom 
looking  with  pleased  eyes  at  the  scene  before  her. 
Beyond  the  quay,  where  a  string  of  carts  waited  to 
load  a  sprit  barge  with  hay,  she  saw  on  the  other  side 
of  the  shining  river,  and  towering  above  four  or  five 
little  wooden  cottages,  two  immense  black-tarred 
hulks,  with  curtained  windows  let  into  their  sides,  and 
with  flowers  growing  in  boxes  on  their  roofed-in 
decks.  Steps  led  from  the  tops  of  these  strange  dwell- 
ings to  the  grass  below,  and  on  these  steps  children 
were  seated,  whose  bright  pinafores  fluttered  in  the 
wind.  At  a  little  distance  from  the  mastless  hulks, 
which  looked  like  Noah's  Arks,  were  the  ruins  of  a 
malt-house,  a  granary,  and  three  or  four  wharves — 
brick  buildings  from  which  the  glass  and  the  frames 


70  THE   CAGE 

of  windows,  the  tiles  from  the  rafters,  and  the  doors 
from  the  hinges,  had  long  since  disappeared.  A 
sandy  road  led  past  these  ruins,  with  only  a  few 
loose-hanging  galvanized  wires  strung  from  nodding 
posts  between  it  and  a  long,  almost  unbroken,  vista 
of  green  marshes,  dotted  with  cattle,  a  prospect  which 
just  then  was  bathed  in  the  glittering  haze  of  sunset. 

To  the  woman  conscious  of  a  desire  for  emancipa- 
tion, this  wide  scene  of  river  and  marsh,  so  beautiful 
in  its  restfulness  and  so  consolatory  in  its  eternal 
quiet,  made  an  instant  and  powerful  appeal. 

It  seemed  to  her  then  that  she  could  be  content  with 
the  place;  that  her  nature  would  never  clamour  for 
excitement;  that  her  temperament  would  be  always 
still;  that  for  ever  she  could  look  at  the  sea  and  be 
satisfied.  The  spell  of  environment  was  on  her  soul. 
In  this  ancient  sanctuary  of  Nature  she  became  for 
the  moment  a  passionless  nun. 

"You  are  almost  as  enthusiastic  as  the  major,"  said 
Dr.  M'Gavin.  While  Anne  wondered  who  this  major 
was,  the  careful  and  far-seeing  doctor  proceeded  to 
balance^  the  disadvantages  of  Borhaven  against  its 
delights.  He  spoke  of  the  drains. 

Anne  was  not  long  in  making  acquaintance  with 
the  major.  She  was  introduced  to  this  personage  on 
her  first  walk  through  Borhaven.  "Ah,  here  comes 
the  major,"  M'Gavin  said,  as  they  entered  the  square. 
Anne  looked  up  quickly,  and  recognized  an  inmate 
of  the  hotel.  She  saw  approaching  her  a  little,  cor- 
pulent, tight  man,  with  a  heavy  red  face  and  a  white 
moustache,  who  walked  swiftly  with  the  unmistakable 


BORHAVEN  71 

carriage  of  a  soldier  proud  of  his  profession.  He 
wore  on  his  big  head  a  very  small,  fawn-coloured 
Homburg  hat,  pinched  at  the  crown.  His  jacket  was 
buttoned  across  his  chest,  which  was  disproportion- 
ately broad  and  deep;  this  little  shabby  jacket  was 
short  in  the  sleeves,  and  was  so  strained  in  at  the 
waist  that  it  showed  a  considerable  expanse  of  trouser- 
seat  behind.  The  trousers  fitted  tightly  round  the 
short  legs,  which  were  a  trifle  bowed,  and  were  turned 
high  up  over  a  pair  of  well-polished  ammunition- 
boots.  He  carried  in  his  right  hand  an  old  ash  stick 
with  much  of  the  bark  missing,  and  with  the  ferrule 
blunted  to  a  crumpled  ring.  A  long-legged  fox 
terrier,  with  a  head  almost  like  a  hound's,  followed 
at  the  major's  heels. 

They  stopped  and  spoke.  "I  came  here,"  he  said  to 
her,  laughing,  "for  six  weeks.  I  have  stayed  for 
eleven  years  !  "  He  assured  her  that  it  was  the  finest 
place  in  England.  He  had  never  been  so  well  in  his 
life.  "An  old  fellow  like  me,  too!  "  he  said,  laugh- 
ing. He  narrated  that  he  had  split  the  riding  muscle 
of  his  right  thigh  in  India,  that  he -had  got  a  bullet  in 
his  bridle  arm  in  Egypt,  and  that  he  had  broken  his 
collar-bone  badly  at  Punchestown  and  rather  worse 
at  Aintree.  "And  yet  I  feel  like  a  two-year-old:  fit 
for  anything,"  he  said  cheerfully.  He  appealed  to  the 
doctor.  "Am  I  a  fit  man? — am  I  sound?  By  Jove  I 
I  should  think  I  was  !  Forty-six  and  three-quarter 
inches  round  the  chest;  arms  like  a  blacksmith's,  legs 
like  a  postman's  I  Ask  Trooper  if  I  can  walk."  He 
patted  his  dog's  head,  laughed  good-humouredly, 


72  THE   CAGE 

assured  Anne  that  she  would  enjoy  Borhaven,  and 
raising  the  little  Homburg  hat  with  an  elaborate  bow, 
strode  forward,  the  faithful  Trooper  at  his  heels. 

"Major  Lauden,"  said  the  Mf Gavin,  as  they  con- 
tinued their  walk,  "is  a  very  remarkable  man.  He 
contradicts  that  broad  generalization  of  Huxley's  that 
Nature  sends  physical  disease  after  physical  tres- 
passes. He  is  a  sad  toper.  He  was  in  what  they  call 
a  crack  cavalry  regiment.  In  ten  years  he  had  wasted 
eighty  thousand  pounds.  And  yet  the  man's  body 
remains  a  very  perfect  physical  instrument.  He  walks 
ten  or  fifteen  miles  a  day.  He  swims  in  the  sea  winter 
and  summer.  Sometimes  he  goes  out  with  the  fishing 
fleet  for  two  or  three  nights  at  a  time,  and  helps  pull 
in  the  nets.  He  never  suffers  from  dyspepsia,  his 
heart  is  normal,  he  has  no  lung  trouble,  and  he  is 
fairly  intelligent  in  his  ideas.  I  have  never  known  an 
abstemious  man  more  efficient  in  the  body." 

M 'Gavin  told  Anne  that,  so  far  as  he  understood  the 
matter,  Major  Lauden  was  something  of  a  pensioner; 
that  is  to  say,  the  sons  and  married  daughters  of 
the  incorrigible  gentleman  clubbed  together  and  paid 
him  a  purposely  narrow  pittance  on  condition  that  he 
remained  at  Borhaven  and  never  left  it.  "There  is  a 
gentleman  here,"  said  M* Gavin,  "the  district  officer 
of  the  coastguards,  Lieutenant  Henry  Pleasant  by 
name,  who  tells  me  that  it  is  no  uncommon  thing  in 
England  to  find  some  more  or  less  disreputable  mem- 
ber of  a  good  family  living  permanently  in  an  out-of- 
the-way  hotel  on  an  allowance  made  by  his  people." 
Anne  interrupted  the  doctor  with  an  exclamation  of 


BORHAVEN  73 

pleasure.  "  How  picturesque  that  is  1  "  she  said,  stop- 
ping to  look  at  a  scene  in  a  narrow  street  full  of  old 
stone  houses  by  which  they  were  just  passing.  The 
sight  which  had  moved  her  admiration  was  a  common 
spectacle  in  Borhaven.  She  saw  the  vicar  of  the  town, 
in  cassock  and  biretta,  coming  slowly  from  evensong 
surrounded  by  a  swarm  of  affectionate  children.  In 
the  little  ancient  street,  whose  crowded  perspective 
ended  in  a  massy  arch,  over  which,  in  the  midst  of  the 
trees,  could  be  seen  the  tower  of  the  church,  the  pro- 
gress of  this  group  made  a  romantic  and  beguiling 
picture.  It  was  such  a  scene  as  charms  the  traveller 
in  Latin  countries.  The  vicar,  a  tall,  lean,  scholarly- 
looking  man,  with  dark  hair  and  a  reddish-brown 
moustache  and  beard,  walked  among  the  crowding 
children  like  a  veritable  father  in  God.  He  wore 
spectacles,  and  through  these  glasses  Anne  could  see 
that  his  dark  eyes  beamed  indulgently  on  the  children 
chattering  at  his  side  and  jostling  each  other  for  the 
privilege  of  holding  his  hands.  The  man  breathed  a 
spirit  of  universal  benevolence.  "That  is  our  quack 
doctor,"  said  M'Gavinj  "an  incoherent  man." 


CHAPTER    V 

CREEK  COTTAGE 

THE  house  chosen  by  Anne  for  her  future  home 
was  a  little  white-brick  cottage,  whose  walls  were 
covered  by  trellis-work  once  green  and  now  faded  to 
a  dull  blue.  This  little  cottage,  which  stood  on  green- 
sward some  fifty  yards  from  the  water's  edge,  was 
surrounded  by  a  low  wall  sprinkled  with  the  gold  of 
lichen.  At  the  gate  there  were  two  sentinel  bay-trees 
clipped  to  a  precise  pattern.  A  path  formed  of  mill- 
stones with  cobbles  in  the  interstices  led  from  the  gate 
in  the  wall,  between  two  broad  herbaceous  borders, 
to  the  front  door.  There  was  a  rustic  arch  half-way 
up  this  path  covered  by  roses — Lady  Gay,  Dorothy 
Perkins,  Crimson  Rambler,  and  Aglaia.  Over  the 
porch  of  the  front  door  and  hanging  in  great  tangled 
clusters  from  the  trellis-work  on  the  walls,  were 
clematis,  jasmine  and  honeysuckle.  When  Anne  paid 
her  first  visit,  a  scent  of  honey  breathed  in  the  little 
garden,  which  was  full  of  the  hum  of  bees  and  the 
singing  of  birds. 

The  cottage  answered  every  desire  in  Anne's  heart. 
It  was  small,  but  beautiful ;  it  was  solitary,  but  com- 
fortable. 

There  were  two  sitting-rooms,  four  bedrooms,  and 
a  little  bath-room,  a  hot-air  linen  cupboard,  and  a  use- 

74 


CREEK   COTTAGE  75 

ful  and  practical  suite  of  domestic  offices.  From  the 
back-door  one  walked  into  a  very  good  kitchen  garden, 
with  fruit-trees  planted  at  the  sides  of  the  walks.  At 
the  back  of  this  garden  was  a  little  cliff  of  sandstone 
and  gravel,  with  firs  and  pines  on  the  crest.  "You 
are  sheltered  from  the  worst  winds,"  said  the  doctor, 
"and  you  get  all  the  sunlight." 

"It  is  just  what  I  want,"  said  Anne. 

"The  postman  comes  here  last  of  all,"  said  the 
doctor;  "you  could  get  him  to  pump  the  water  and 
do  the  rough  work  of  the  garden  for  ten  shillings  a 
week." 

"It  is  the  very  thing  for  me,"  said  Anne. 

Anne  took  great  pleasure  in  furnishing  this  little 
place,  which  was  to  be  her  home,  her  own  dwelling. 
The  money  left  by  her  father  had  accumulated,  and 
out  of  this  sum  she  made  her  purchases.  She  enjoyed 
buying  old  furniture,  choosing  wall-papers  and 
chintzes,  providing  herself  with  household  linen,  and 
planning  the  decoration  of  her  tiny  abode. 

One  of  her  chief  purchases  was  Mrs.  Beeton's  cook- 
ery book.  She  became  an  industrious  student  of 
domestic  economy. 

A  little  frightened  servant  was  engaged  for  twelve 
pounds  a  year.  Mrs.  Dobson  dubbed  her  "the 
minion."  Anne  said  the  name  was  too  adult,  and 
called  her  "minionette."  This  little  creature,  whose 
real  name  was  Emily,  adored  Anne,  and  an  intimacy 
grew  between  them  such  as  exists  between  mistress 
and  servant  in  France.  They  both  contrived  to  keep 
down  the  bills. 


CHAPTER   VI 

CURIOSITY 

BORHAVEN  said,  "She  is  charming,  beautiful,  a 
great  acquisition — but,  where  is  her  husband  ?  " 

The  question  interested  different  people  in  different 
ways. 

It  interested  Mr.  Aldrich,  one  of  the  three  curates, 
from  the  religious  point  of  view.  He  was  a  lean  and 
bony  man  with  a  cavernous  face,  in  which  people  saw 
a  resemblance  to  Savonarola.  It  was  Mr.  Aldrich 
who  denounced  with  a  terrible  invective  the  immorality 
of  Borhaven.  He  was  the  least  compromising  of  men. 
He  was  the  most  earnest  priest  of  the  parish.  Canon 
Case,  the  scholarly  vicar,  did  not  deserve  his  nick- 
name of  the  Accusative  Case;  he  was  a  theologian 
more  than  a  parish  priest;  he  rarely  interfered  with 
the  lives  of  the  people;  he  took  no  part  in  the  social 
life  of  the  town ;  his  one  theatre  of  operation  outside 
the  vicarage  study,  where  he  wrote  books  of  theology 
and  contributed  learned  articles  to  the  reviews,  was 
the  school;  he  devoted  himself  to  the  next  generation. 

But  Mr.  Aldrich,  the  senior  curate,  was  a  real 
accuser.  He  neglected  children  because  he  could  not 

strike  them.    He  struck  at  men  and  women  with  the 

A 


CURIOSITY  77 

burning  indignation  of  a  pure  soul,  an  incorruptible 
mind,  a  heart  that  had  never  known  temptation.  He 
was  a  born  fighter.  In  one  of  his  sermons,  on  sinning 
against  the  light,  he  had  said,  "I  accuse  you  now  to 
your  faces;  in  the  next  world  I  will  accuse  you  to 
God." 

To  this  earnest  and  scrupulous  priest  the  question 
of  Mrs.  Paton's  husband  became  a  matter  of  serious 
consideration.  Any  looseness  of  opinion  regarding 
the  marriage  laws  roused  the  lion  in  his  breast. 

He  knew  what  the  rest  of  the  parish  knew,  after 
many  months  of  sounding  Dr.  M'Gavin.  Soon  after 
Anne's  arrival  Dr.  M{  Gavin's  practice  had  suddenly 
become  brisk.  He  was  called  in  by  all  the  spinsters 
for  several  miles  round  the  town.  Miss  Potter,  the 
busiest  and  most  indefatigable  church  worker,  was  the 
first  to  be  struck  down.  There  was  an  epidemic  of 
curiosity.  He  found  his  patients  perfectly  well,  but 
inquisitive.  He  felt  their  pulses  and  evaded  their 
questions.  He  sent  them  medicine  and  increased  their 
curiosity. 

Mr.  Aldrich  only  knew  that  there  was  a  Mr.  Paton, 
and  that  no  divorce  or  separation  had  taken  place. 
This  invisible  husband,  gossips  said,  was  immensely 
rich — the  owner  of  racehorses,  with  great  houses  in 
London  and  Scotland.  Why  Mrs.  Paton  should  be 
living  in  a  little  cottage  with  one  servant  was  incom- 
prehensible. The  neighbourhood  arrived  at  a  general 
conclusion  :  there  was  something  wrong  somewhere. 

But  Anne  was  charming;  about  her  not  the  basest 
mind^in  the  place  imagined  scandal.  The  question 


78  THE   CAGE 

of  her  husband  only  added  charm;  it  made  he? 
interesting. 

People  who  have  lived  in  a  small  town  will  know 
without  being  told  "how  the  neighbours  talked  about 
this  mysterious  new-comer.  It  was  natural  that  they 
should  talk.  How  stupid  they  would  have  been  if 
they  had  not  been  curious.  Is  not  romance  the  breath 
of  existence? 

Mr.  Aldrich  said,  "I  will  handle  this  woman's 
soul." 


CHAPTER   VII 

MR.   ALDRICH   MAKES   A  MOVE 

MRS.  DOBSON  did  not  go  to  church.  "Sunday," 
she  would  say,  "is  the  occasion  when  people  put  on 
their  best  clothes  and  call  themselves  miserable 
sinners."  The  thought  of  a  rich  landowner,  receiving 
first  the  homage  of  poor  people  at  the  lych-gate  of  a 
church,  and  then  proceeding  to  take  the  chief  place 
in  the  temple  near  to  the  priest  who  flourished  under 
his  patronage,  always  made  her  scornful.  "The  most 
important  man  in  an  English  church,"  she  used  to 
say,  "is  the  unhappy  person  who  can  no  more  enter 
the  kingdom  of  heaven  than  a  camel  can  go  through 
the  eye  of  a  needle."  If  people  ventured  to  expostu- 
late with  her  for  this  raillery,  "Ah,  but,  you  see,  I  take 
Christianity  seriously,"  was  her  confounding  apology. 

She  disliked  hearing  beautiful  language  intoned. 
Wretched  singing  set  her  teeth  on  edge.  Long 
prayers  made  her  restless.  The  sentiments  of  the 
hymnology  made  her  indignant.  This  little  old  lady 
had  the  realism  of  a  man  of  science.  It  was  her  fixed 
conviction  that  not  one  person  in  thirty  realized  the 
meanings  of  words,  or  ever  thought  about  what  they 
were  saying.  "Churches  are  full  of  parrots,"  she 
would  say. 

79 


8o  THE   CAGE 

But  the  little  lady  was  not  irreligious.  On  Sundays 
she  always  read  the  collect,  epistle  and  gospel  for  the 
day,  one  or  two  of  her  favourite  psalms,  and  a  sermon 
by  F.  W.  Robertson  or  Charles  Kingsley.  She 
never  uttered  a  creed,  because,  as  she  said,  she  only 
knew  accurately  what  she  did  not  believe;  and  she 
never  discussed  religion,  which  she  called  a  "painful 
subject." 

Anne,  who  had  been  brought  up  without  any  religious 
training,  did  not  go  to  church  in  Borhaven.  She  had 
thought  about  religion,  read  about  religion,  but  now 
was  in  that  condition  of  mind  when  people  are  quite 
indifferent  to  the  formal  observances  of  their  intellec- 
tual attitude  towards  God.  In  a  common  phrase,  she 
did  not  give  a  thought  to  Church  observance.  Her 
mind,  it  must  be  remembered,  had  never  been  brought 
quietly  and  solemnly  to  contemplate  the  avenues  of 
approach  to  God  which  experience  has  laid  across 
the  ages.  She  found  herself  quite  happy  and  restful 
without  church-going.  When  she  lived  in  London 
she  had  gone  on  two  or  three  occasions  to  a  fashion- 
able church  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Wilton  Crescent. 
She  described  to  her  grandmother  the  magnificent 
hats  and  the  gorgeous  dresses  of  the  congregation. 
The  old  lady  had  smiled  and  said,  "Ah,  my  dear,  you 
have  evidently  been  worshipping  God  with  people 
who  have  solemnly  promised  and  vowed  to  renounce 
the  pomps  and  vanity  of  this  wicked  world."  "Is  it 
all  a  sham  ?  "  Anne  had  asked.  From  that  time  she 
had  put  church-going  out  of  her  head.  She  had  not 
thought  about  it. 


MR.   ALDRICH    MAKES   A   MOVE        81 

Mr.  Aldrich  remarked  the  absence  from  Borhaven 
church  of  these  two  interesting  ladies. 

He  began  his  work  by  asking  Anne  to  come  to 
church.  He  pointed  out  that  in  the  country  people  of 
Anne's  class  exercise  a  considerable  influence  on  the 
poor. 

Anne,  who  hated  to  give  pain,  readily  promised  to 
come  to  church.  It  was  all  new  and  strange  to  her; 
she  was  almost  a  stranger  to  the  English  liturgy; 
when  she  made  her  first  communion  she  was  filled 
with  nervousness.  A  few  months  after  she  had  kept 
this  promise,  Mr.  Aldrich  persuaded  her  to  take  a  dis- 
trict in  the  town.  She  shrank  from  the  commission, 
but  accepted  it  because  of  his  earnestness.  She  visited 
a  little  area  of  mean  houses,  helped  various  ladies  of 
the  neighbourhood  in  such  parochial  charities  as  the 
Maternity  Fund  and  the  Girls'  Friendly  Society,  and 
became  gradually  acquainted  with  all  the  careful 
organization  of  an  English  parish.  The  day  came 
when  she  looked  forward  to  visiting  certain  old  people 
in  her  district.  She  and  Minionette  made  little  jellies 
and  dishes  which  Anne  carried  on  her  rounds.  She 
grew  to  be  fond  of  the  Church  in  her  own  tranquil  and 
restful  manner. 

Peter  Lott  was  the  chief  yeoman  farmer  of  the  dis- 
trict, a  justice  of  the  peace  and  a  county  councillor. 
His  daughters  were  handsome,  well-educated  and 
efficient  women.  They  were  devoted  workers  in  the 
parish,  and  Anne  caught  from  these  cheerful,  whole- 
some women  not  only  something  of  a  zeal  for  unselfish 
work,  but  something  of  their  loyalty  to  the  historic 


82  THE   CAGE 

Church  of  England.  She  often  visited  Ferry  Hall, 
which  was  a  beautiful  and  well-ordered  place.  The 
five  daughters  of  the  old  yeoman  came  frequently  to 
Creek  Cottage. 

A  year  had  passed  away  when  one  day  Anne  met 
Mr.  Aldrich  at  Ferry  Hall.  The  clergyman  was  rather 
silent :  his  eyes  rested  very  often  on  her  face ;  he  did 
not  speak  with  his  usual  energy.  Anne  felt  that  his 
eyes  disconcerted  her.  When  she  left  he  rose  and  said 
he  would  go  with  her.  Anne  felt  uncomfortable.  As 
they  walked  across  the  fields  to  the  town,  he  said  to 
her :  "If  you  will  let  me,  Mrs.  Paton,  I  should  like  to 
talk  to  you  about  yourself.  May  I  do  so?  " 

He  turned  his  head,  and  looked  at  her.  The  man 
had  a  disconcerting  power  of  personality.  His 
earnestness  was  overwhelming.  One  felt  that  none  of 
the  ordinary  social  reticencies  existed  in  his  mind. 
He  was  like  a  father  confessor,  self-appointed. 

"I  don't  quite  understand,"  said  Anne. 

"It  is  about  your  marriage,"  replied  the  priest.  "I 
am  distressed  to  think  you  are  unhappy.  I  feel  very 
deeply  for  you.  " 

"Oh,  but  please,"  said  Anne,  wanting  to  quicken 
her  pace,  "don't  be  distressed."  She  affected  to  laugh. 
"I  am  perfectly  happy,  I  assure  you." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  about  your  marriage  ?  "  he  in- 
quired, a  note  of  intimacy  in  his  voice.  "You  do  not 
live  with  your  husband?  You  have  been  here  a 
year,  I  think  ?  " 

"There  is  really  little  to  tell.    My  husband  and  I 


MR.    ALDRICH   MAKES   A   MOVE       83 

have  different  tastes.  Instead  of  living  unhappily 
together,  we  live  happily  alone.  That  is  all  there  is 
to  say." 

The  priest  shook  his  head. 

"These  separations  are  dangerous."  He  turned  and 
looked  at  her.  "May  I  suggest  to  you  that  it  is  your 
duty  to  remain  at  your  husband's  side,  whatever  the 
disagreeables  may  be  ?  " 

Anne,  who  felt  more  than  ever  her  desire  to  escape, 
replied  hastily,  "Forgive  me,  but  I  have  settled  this 
matter.  I  do  not  think  about  it." 

"You  are  very  young,  Mrs.  Paton,"  said  the  clergy- 
man. "Let  me,  as  your  priest,  make  the  suggestion 
that  God's  purpose  with  you  perhaps  may  be  the 
salvation  of  your  husband's  soul.  Have  you  weighed 
such  a  thought  ?  Have  you  considered  your  responsi- 
bility ?  To  say  that  you  have  settled  the  matter  is — 
forgive  me  for  saying  it — only  a  hasty  expression  of 
disrelish  for  a  consideration  of  duty.  There  is  nothing 
more  dangerous  in  modern  times  than  the  lightness 
with  which  people  regard  their  marriage  obligations. 
It  is  the  sapping  of  society.  It  makes  for  carelessness, 
flippancy,  immorality.  The  Church  has  no  plainer 
duty  in  our  time  than  to  insist  on  the  solemnity  of 
the  marriage  sacrament.  On  the  manner  in  which 
society  regards  the  seriousness  and  the  religious 
character  of  marriage,  depends  the  future  of  humanity. 
It  is  the  base  of  civilization.  Let  me,  pray  let  me, 
beg  of  you  to  consider  whether  this  separation  is  not 
dangerous  for  your  husband,  and  whether  it  is  not 

09 


84  THE   CAGE 

God's  will  with  you  that  you  should  fulfil,  however 
hard  and  bitter,  your  marriage  vows." 

Anne  did  not  answer.  Her  heart  was  beating  fast. 
Her  face  was  pale.  She  felt  a  commotion  in  her 
thoughts.  If  any  one  else  in  the  world  had  spoken 
to  her  in  this  manner  she  would  have  been  swift  to 
resentment.  But  what  could  she  say  to  the  priest  at 
her  side,  with  his  solemn  voice,  his  terrible  earnest- 
ness, his  obvious  sympathy  with  her  fate?  She  had 
received  from  his  hands  the  Eucharist. 

"Don't  let  me  hurt  you;  don't  let  me  offend  you," 
he  said.  "I  have  a  profound  interest  in  you.  Let  me 
leave  in  your  heart  just  this  one  idea,  Whether  you 
might  not  see  your  husband  once  more,  and  once 
again  endeavour  to  fulfil  your  vows?"  He  stopped, 
holding  out  his  hand  to  her.  They  had  reached 
a  turning  where  their  ways  separated.  "I  shall 
pray,"  he  said  in  his  intense  way,  looking  deeply 
into  her  eyes,  "that  God  will  help  you  to  do  your 
duty." 

She  could  not  answer.  To  keep  her  eyes  upon  him 
was  difficult.  She  released  her  hand,  and  with  a 
hurried  farewell,  turned  away. 

She  felt  how  good  it  was  to  be  walking  swiftly. 

She  went  home  in  a  vexed  mood,  which  did  not 
altogether  disappear  at  sight  of  the  little  grandmother 
standing  on  a  chair  to  fasten  a  drooping  tendril  of 
clematis  to  the  trellis-work  on  the  house.  Creek 
Cottage  had  made  even  Mrs.  Dobson  fond  of  flowers. 

Anne  had  been  a  year  in  her  cottage,  a  year  of  joy 
and  peace  and  happiness,  and  now  this  inquisitive 


MR.   ALDRICH   MAKES   A  MOVE       85 

priest  had  begun  to  irritate  her  with  a  reminder  of 
the  miserable  past.  She  stayed  away  from  church  on 
the  following  Sunday.  She  was  surprised  to  find  that 
she  missed  the  service.  She  did  not  know  that 
quietly,  imperceptibly,  and  with  all  the  tender 
graciousness  of  a  summer  dawn,  the  Liturgy  of  the 
Church  had  been  entering  into  her  soul,  colouring 
and  suffusing  her  thoughts  with  the  sublime  imagina- 
tion of  religion,  filling  her  character  with  the  con- 
tinual incense  of  worship.  She  had  not  realized  till 
this  empty  Sunday,  how  much  nearer  during  the  past 
year  she  had  drawn  in  the  dim  and  silent  chancel  of 
her  soul  to  the  thought,  the  idea  of  God. 

But  she  had  the  cottage,  and  she  had  the  garden, 
and  she  had  her  little  grandmother.  The  days  could 
not  be  too  long  for  her.  She  possessed  the  genius  of 
the  house.  Like  all  restful  women,  the  home  became 
more  and  more  her  altar.  She  found  an  unceasing 
pleasure  in  keeping  it  beautiful  and  making  it  express 
her  feelings.  What  the  woman  of  fashion  finds  in  a 
new  frock,  Anne  found,  but  with  much  deeper  satis*, 
faction,  in  the  things  of  the  house.  She  placed 
flowers  in  vases,  and  composed  with  their  colours 
ideas  that  floated  in  her  soul.  The  cottage  was  a 
canvas  on  which  she  painted,  a  book  in  which  she 
wrote.  The  garden  was  herself. 

Then,  too,  she  had  her  friends.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Henry  Pleasant  were  delightful.  The  Miss  Lotts 
pleased  her;  she  liked  their  simple  good  lives;  she 
learned  from  them  such  diverse  arts  as  how  to  help 
poor  people  and  how  to  make  jam.  Then  there  was 


86  THE   CAGE 

Major  Lauden,  who  came  often  to  the  cottage  for  tea, 
bringing  Trooper  with  him,  and  always  vowing  at  the 
door  that  he  had  carefully  shut  the  dog  outside  the 
gate,  and  would  it  matter  if  the  old  fellow  stayed  in 
the  garden  ? — a  question  which  ended  in  Trooper 
entering  the  house.  Major  Lauden  occasionally 
borrowed  a  sovereign  from  Anne,  good-naturedly, 
laughing  at  the  transaction.  She  liked  him  too  well 
to  refuse.  And  he  diverted  the  little  grandmother  by 
his  revolutionary  ideas,  crudely  and  hotly  uttered,  for 
Major  Lauden  was  a  socialist  and  an  agnostic. 

No;  she  was  not  unhappy.  Her  life  was  pleasant. 
This  interfering  priest  had  only  disturbed  her.  The 
deep  waters  of  her  soul  were  still;  presently  she 
almost  forgot  that  they  had  been  ruffled. 

And  then  one  day  something  occurred  to  divert  her 
thoughts  from  any  wandering  inclinations  towards 
introspection.  It  was  in  July.  Anne  woke  just  before 
six  o'clock.  The  sun  was  level  with  her  window, 
making  it  a  splendour.  From  the  garden,  like  an 
orchestra  of  aerial  flutes  came  the  piping  rivalries  of 
little  birds.  The  golden  atmosphere  of  her  room  was 
sweet  with  the  scent  of  roses,  mignonette  and  honey- 
suckle. The  breath  of  the  dawn,  drenched  with  thick 
dews  and  glittering  with  sunbeams  fresh  from  the 
sea,  entered  the  little  low-ceiled  chamber  like  a  saluta- 
tion. 

Anne  threw  back  the  coverlet,  pushed  her  hair  from 
her  eyes,  and  rising  from  the  warm  bed,  stepped  into 
the  morning  air.  She  brushed  back  the  hair  from  her 
eyes,  and  crossed  the  floor  to  the  window* 


MR.    ALDRICH    MAKES   A   MOVE        87 

At  first  her  eyes  were  dazzled  by  the  sun,  and  she 
thought  only  of  the  change  wrought  in  the  night; 
she  had  stood  at  this  window  before  going  to  sleep, 
looking  at  a  nearly  full  moon  which  poured  down  on 
the  river  a  shaft  of  silver  light,  and  made  a  ghostly 
beauty  of  the  dark  green  shrubs  in  the  still  and  silent 
garden. 

Then  her  eyes  grew  used  to  the  light.  She  drew 
back  quickly,  her  hands  at  her  breast.  For  a  moment 
she  stood  confused;  then  she  peeped  out  again  from 
behind  the  vantage  of  a  chintz  curtain.  A  sailing- 
vessel,  something  like  a  fishing-boat,  and  something 
like  a  yacht,  was  lying  in  the  river  at  some  distance 
from  the  cottage,  heeled  over  on  its  side,  the  boom 
swinging,  the  sail  flapping.  The  accident  had  evi- 
dently only  just  occurred.  A  man  on  deck  was  hastily 
picking  up  a  quant  when  she  first  reached  the  window, 
and  now  she  watched  him  at  the  end  of  this  long  pole 
pushing  hard  to  get  the  yacht  off  again.  He  appeared 
to  her  in  the  distance  a  slim,  broad-shouldered  man, 
bareheaded,  clad  in  a  thin  linen  shirt  and  flannel 
trousers. 

"My  friend,"  she  said,  laughing  to  herself,  "you 
will  have  to  wait  there  till  the  tide  rises  again." 

She  turned  away  from  the  window,  put  on  a  dress- 
ing-gown, slipped  her  pretty  feet  into  list-shoes,  and 
gathering  up  her  towels,  sponges,  and  soap-dish, 
opened  the  door  and  went  along  the  passage  to  the 
bath-room. 

When  she  came  back,  she  amused  herself  as  she 
dressed  by  glancing  out  of  the  window  at  the  boat 


88  THE   CAGE 

on  the  mud  and  the  struggling  man  on  the  shelving 
deck.  Before  she  had  finished  her  toilet,  he  had 
abandoned  his  struggles,  and  was  leaning  against  the 
mast,  filling  a  pipe,  and  staring  disconsolately  at  the 
falling  tide. 

Anne  went  down-stairs.  She  opened  all  the  windows  ; 
unbarred  and  unlocked  the  doors ;  greeted  Minionette, 
who  came  sleepily  into  the  kitchen  with  paper  and 
sticks  for  the  fire,  and  then  went  out  through  the  back 
door  to  raise  the  hatch  of  the  fowl-house.  She  stood 
watching  the  emerging  hens  for  a  moment,  who  shook 
their  feathers  and  stretched  their  wings  along  an 
elongated  leg,  and  refused  until  this  operation  was 
over  to  run  after  the  hypothetical  worms  to  which 
chanticleer  was  summoning  them  with  the  most 
tremendous  puffings  of  his  hackle  feathers,  the  most 
ceaseless  and  urgent  duckings  and  bobbings  of  his 
scarlet-capped  head,  and  the  most  expostulatory  and 
inflammatory  words  of  the  barndoor  vocabulary. 
Anne  laughed  at  them,  and  then  entered  the  garden 
and  made  her  way  to  the  front  of  the  house.  "  I  must 
go  and  help  that  poor  man,"  she  said. 

She  lifted  the  latch  of  the  gate  in  the  wall,  and 
crossed  the  grass  on  the  river-bank.  She  reached 
the  hard,  where  her  feet  made  a  pleasant  sound  on 
the  dew-glistening  gravel,  and  stood  on  the  edge  of 
the  little  quay.  The  man  who  was  doing  something 
with  tackle,  looked  up  and  saw  her  in  the  distance. 
He  waited  to  see  what  she  would  do. 

"How  much  do  you  draw?'-  called  Anne,  putting 


MR.    ALDRICH    MAKES   A   MOVE        89 

her  hand  to  her  mouth  and  speaking  very  slowly  and 
distinctly. 

He  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth.  "A  little  over 
seven  feet,"  he  said,  lifting  his  back  from  the  mast. 
The  voice  came  with  wonderful  distinctness  across  the 
water;  the  features  of  the  face  were  indistinguishable. 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  wait  till  the  flood's  at 
the  full,"  called  Anne;  "the  mud  just  here  is  very 
soft." 

He  nodded  his  head.  "There's  no  room  for  throw- 
ing out  a  kedge,"  he  shouted,  with  humour.  Then  he 
added,  by  way  of  apology,  "I  was  congratulating 
myself  on  a  long  tack.  It  looked  like  a  lot  of 
water." 

Anne  smiled.  "Can  we  be  of  any  service  to  you? 
Have  you  got  food  ?  " 

"Yes,  thanks.  I  shall  be  all  right.  This  isn't  a 
new  experience,  I'm  afraid!  Many  thanks  all  the 
same." 

She  nodded,  and  turned  back  to  the  garden.  He 
put  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  looked  along  the  deck 
of  his  vessel. 

Anne  went  indoors.  She  was  amused  and  felt 
happy.  An  incident  of  any  kind  is  delightful  to 
people  who  live  in  simple  quiet.  She  took  Mrs.  Dob- 
son  the  old  lady's  early  cup  of  tea,  told  her  of  the 
boat  on  the  mud,  and  then  went  down  to  see  about 
breakfast.  When  the  table  was  laid  and  the  drawing- 
room  dusted,  she  picked  up  her  basket  and  scissors 
and  went  into  the  garden  for  fresh  flowers. 


90  THE    CAGE 

She  looked  up  to  see  how  the  sailor  was  getting  on, 
and  beheld  him  in  the  act  of  hurling  a  dinghey  over- 
board. The  little  boat  made  a  great  splash  as  it  struck 
the  water,  and  ran  out  with  the  tide  to  the  end  of  the 
rope.  Then  Anne  saw  the  sailor  pick  up  a  pair  of  oars, 
and  pull  the  boat  in  to  the  ship's  side. 

"He's  coming  ashore,"  she  said;  "we  must  ask 
him  to  breakfast." 

She  began  to  wonder  what  he  was  like. 

The  sailor  dropped  his  coat  into  the  dinghey,  and 
then  stepped  in  after  it  with  the  oars  under  his  arm. 
But  instead  of  pulling  to  the  shore,  he  got  the 
dinghey  into  midstream  and  rowed  quietly  away  with 
the  ebbing  tide. 

"He's  going  back  to  Borhaven,"  said  Anne;  "we 
shan't  have  to  boil  another  egg  after  all." 

The  afternoon  passed  away. 

The  flood  came  up  and  lifted  the  deserted  boat  off 
the  mud.  Anne  watched  its  reflection  trembling  in 
the  running  water.  It  made  a  difference,  this  strange 
craft,  to  the  familiar  seclusion  of  the  river  scene. 

Just  before  tea  the  latch  of  the  gate  opened,  and 
Ramsay  M' Gavin  walked  up  the  stone  path  followed 
by  the  man  from  the  boat.  Anne  was  reading  in  the 
shade  of  a  tree,  with  the  little  grandmother  asleep  in 
a  lounge-chair  at  her  side.  She  got  up  and  crossed 
the  square  of  grass  to  the  path. 

She  looked  at  M' Gavin.  His  serious  face  made  her 
smile :  he  looked  like  Destiny,  so  solemn,  so  blood- 
less, so  unalterable.  She  glanced  at  the  stranger. 


MR.    ALDRICH    MAKES   A   MOVE       91 

He  smiled  at  her.  Then  he  laughed.  Stranger  no 
longer ! 

"  Hugh  !  "  she  said,  and  held  out  her  hand. 

He  came  forward  with  the  pleasure  and  animation 
of  an  old  friend.  He  was  laughing.  "It's  like  a 
breath  from  Portobello,"  said  M' Gavin. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

THE  SAND    WASP 

THE  advent  of  Napier  produced  a  great  change  in 
the  life  of  Anne  Paton.  This  companion  of  her  child- 
hood not  only  revived  in  her  heart  the  memory  of 
days  inexpressibly  sweet  and  innocent,  not  only 
brought  back  to  her  and  made  intensely  vivid  the 
whole  pre-existence  of  her  delightful  and  joyous  child- 
hood, but  produced  in  the  stagnant  calm  of  her  pre- 
sent life  the  disturbing  influence  of  his  new  character, 
his  new  personality,  the  change  which  had  overtaken 
him  in  the  years  of  their  separation. 

In  some  ways  he  was  of  all  living  creatures  the  most 
familiar  to  her  consciousness;  in  others,  the  most 
unknown. 

He  had  lived,  she  discovered,  a  nomad  existence, 
with  no  other  dwelling  than  his  little  ship,  which  he 
employed  as  an  Arab  uses  both  tent  and  camel.  The 
sea  had  been  his  desert,  the  harbours  of  the  world 
his  oases  and  camping-grounds.  But  the  solitude  of 
this  existence  had  not  infected  his  mind  with  gloom 
or  bitterness;  on  the  contrary,  he  appeared  in  her 
eyes  as  the  one  profoundly  and  largely  happy  person 
she  had  ever  known.  The  immense  width  of  sea 

horizons,   the  rejoicing  strength  of  huge  masses  of 

92 


THE   SAND    WASP  93 

water,  the  wild  liberty  and  unhampered  freedom  of 
the  great  winds,  seemed  to  have  given  something  of 
their  splendour  and  their  power  to  his  mind.  He  wore 
in  his  countenance  nothing  of  the  grey  of  cities;  his 
vocabulary  stammered  with  no  pedantries  of  conven- 
tion ;  he  was  wonderfully  free  of  the  ennui,  weariness, 
and  pessimism  of  a  dyspeptic  and  overworked  age. 

Anne  perceived  in  this  man  a  solid  depth  of  char- 
acter which  distinguished  him  from  the  mere  flaneur, 
as  a  rock  is  distinguished  from  a  pebble.  She  read,  in 
the  hard  lines  of  his  bronzed  face,  in  the  solidity  of  the 
broad  temples,  in  the  strength  and  security  of  his 
dark  eyes,  the  history  of  many  a  fight  on  the  high 
seas,  many  a  long  and  silent  struggle  with  the  winds 
of  God.  And  these  great  contests  seemed  to  her  only 
the  allegories  of  his  soul,  which  had  been  buffeted 
and  shaped  in  tempests. 

She  was  interested  in  the  quality  of  strength  which 
breathed  from  his  personality.  It  was  not  the  strength 
which  she  had  seen  in  the  grave  and  austere  counten- 
ance of  her  father.  It  was  some  new  form  of  strength 
with  which  she  had  not  yet  made  acquaintance.  The 
man's  eyes,  from  which  the  smile  seldom  went,  his 
voice,  which  had  a  resonant  undertone,  impressed  her 
with  a  sense  of  courage,  daring,  joy — she  knew  not 
what  of  adventure,  hardihood,  and  entire  self-reliance. 
He  seemed  to  have  come  into  the  green  quiet  of  her 
little  trim  garden  from  the  escarpment  of  some  terrible 
wind-swept  mountain,  where  he  had  laughed  at  the 
thunder  and  thrown  stones  at  the  lightning.  Strength 
was  his  cleaving-mark. 


94  THE   CAGE 

This  man  disturbed  her  by  the  question  which  his 
whole  personality  presented  continually  to  her  own 
life.  Hitherto  she  had  found  her  present  existence, 
with  its  simple  duties,  its  regular  routine,  its  humble 
occupations,  and  its  settled  peace,  a  perfectly  satisfac- 
tory employment  of  time.  But  now,  as  she  listened, 
like  Desdemona,  to  the  stories  and  histpries  of  this 
traveller,  she  found  herself  becoming  every  day  more 
conscious  of  smallness  and  narrowness  in  her  life. 
He  had  the  same  disturbing  and  stimulating  effect 
upon  her  quiet  life  that  Lady  Austen  had  on  the  Olney 
household.  Outside  her  cottage,  Anne  began  to 
realize,  was  the  world. 

The  tiny  dwelling  which  her  exquisite  taste  had 
made  so  charming  and  beautiful,  and  which  stirred 
the  inhabitants  of  Borhaven  to  exclamations  of  admira- 
tion, shrank  in  her  eyes  as  she  watched  the  amusement 
it  afforded  to  this  strong-limbed  Ulysses.  "  It  reminds 
me,"  he  said,  "of  your  little  doll's  house  at  Portobello. 
Do  you  remember  ? — you  saved  up  your  pocket-money 
and  bought  it  at  Cumming's  Bazaar,  in  Cockburn 
Street.  The  entire  front — red  bricks,  green  door,  and 
little  curtained  windows — opened  to  show  the  inside; 
and  you  saved  up  more  money  and  bought  little  fur- 
niture, and  ornaments,  and  pictures,  and  vases  of 
flowers  for  the  interior.  Do  you  remember?  There 
was  a  little  brass  lamp,  with  a  chimney  and  white 
globe,  on  the  drawing-room  table,  which  was  of  gilt." 
He  picked  up  a  precious  piece  of  Dresden  china,  a 
comfit-box,  from  the  table  at  his  side.  "This  is 
exactly  the  kind  of  thing  you  used  to  buy  for  your 


THE   SAND    WASP  95 

doll's  house;  it  is  only  a  little  bigger,  and  cost  more 
money.  Does  it" — he  looked  up  at  her,  smiling — 
"give  you  as  much  pleasure  as  the  old  toys?  " 

Her  old  doll's  house  !  She  had  forgotten  it.  She 
had  forgotten  it  in  the  excitement  of  a  bigger  doll's 
house.  This  cottage  was  only  a  continuance  of  her 
old  make-believe;  she  was  still  playing  at  keeping 
house ;  her  mind  was  still  in  the  nursery.  The  limita- 
tions of  her  sex  came  home  to  her.  Women  began 
life  with  dolls  and  dolls'  houses;  they  ended  with 
babies  and  housekeeping. 

The  mention  of  her  old  doll's  house  revived  a 
hundred  memories.  She  recollected  her  old  disputa- 
tions with  Hugh  Napier.  She  remembered  how  he 
had  laughed  at  her,  when  he  returned  from  sailing 
with  Portobello  fishermen,  to  find  her  dusting  the 
little  chambers  of  her  doll's  house  and  preparing  the 
dinner  for  its  tiny  inhabitants.  In  those  days  she  had 
called  him  a  rough  boy,  and  had  countered  his  attack 
on  her  doll's  housekeeping  with  ironical  references 
to  his  blunders  in  the  schoolroom.  And  now,  she 
told  herself,  it  was  just  the  same.  He  came  from  the 
big  sea  to  laugh  at  her  doll's  house.  There  was  no 
difference  in  his  eyes  between  a  farthing  toy  and  a 
priceless  piece  of  Dresden  china.  They  met  after 
many  years  on  the  old  ground  of  sexual  dispute.  He 
was  still  the  boy.  She  was  still  the  girl. 

But  the  quarrel  would  not  resume  its  old  freedom. 
He  did  not  scorn  her  with  roughness;  he  smiled  at 
her  with  polite  and  charming  tolerance.  And  she 
could  not  now  charge  this  strong  and  self-possessed 


o6  THE   CAGE 

traveller,  who  had  seen  the  great  world  and  sailed 
himself  over  the  great  seas,  with  blunders  in  grammar 
and  mistakes  in  spelling  and  arithmetic.  Besides, 
there  was  something  deep,  and  profound,  and  per- 
plexing in  his  character.  He  not  only  came  to  church, 
but  he  visited  poor  people,  was  particularly  kind  to 
the  children  of  bad  parents,  and  assisted  some  of  the 
worst  outcasts  whom  no  curate  or  district-visitor  ever 
went  near. 

The  man  had  some  greatness  in  him  which  made 
an  impression  on  her.  Above  everything  else,  he 
perplexed  her. 

He  had  told  her  on  the  first  day  of  his  arrival  that 
he  intended  to  stay  only  a  few  days  in  Norfolk  waters. 
He  was  going,  he  said,  to  the  most  beautiful  place  on 
the  earth — to  Svendborg,  in  Denmark.  He  described 
to  her  the  scenery,  spoke  about  the  delightful  hos- 
pitality of  the  people,  and  mentioned  the  names  of 
many  friends  in  that  country.  "I  had  no  idea  that  I 
should  find  you  here,"  he  said;  "I  only  came  to  see 
how  M' Gavin  was  getting  on." 

But  he  did  not  go  away.  His  ship,  the  Sand  Wasp, 
lay  in  the  harbour  of  Borhaven.  He  rowed  his 
dinghey  almost  every  day  up  the  river  to  Creek 
Cottage.  He  sat  with  Mrs.  Dobson  in  the  garden 
while  Anne  was  busy  in  the  house,  and  after  tea 
would  walk  with  Anne  along  the  river-bank,  or  row 
her  to  the  opposite  shore  and  explore  the  woods, 
which  stretched  far  away  to  distant  moorland.  Some- 
times he  met  her  in  Borhaven  when  she  was  making 
the  round  of  her  district.  He  never  spoke  about  going 


THE   SAND    WASP  97 

away,  and  never  referred  to  Svenborg.  "I  had  no 
idea,"  he  would  say,  "that  Norfolk  was  so  beautiful." 
Once  he  said  to  her,  as  they  watched  a  blue-heron 
flying  among  six  or  seven  owls,  which  their  walking 
h\d  put  up  from  the  long  grass  on  the  sea-wall,  "I 
think  I  shall  stay  to  see  the  wildfowl  arrive  in  the 
winter." 

No  companion  could  have  been  pleasanter.  His 
temperament  had  caught  the  quiet  of  nature,  with 
which  he  withstood  the  enmity  of  nature.  The 
summer  of  his  soul  met  the  winter  of  misfortune  and 
laughed  at  it.  He  and  Anne  were  very  happy  to- 
gether. He  had  so  much  to  tell;  she  had  so  willing 
an  inclination  to  hear. 

Soon  after  his  arrival,  she  paid  one  morning  a  visit 
to  his  ship.  It  was  there  that  the  manner  of  his  life 
came  home  to  her.  The  Sand  Wasp  was  a  solid  and 
compact  vessel,  with  a  length  of  forty  feet  and  a 
beam  of  eleven,  drawing  seven  foot  of  water.  His 
sleeping  cabin  was  aft — a  small  chamber  fitted  with 
two  bunks  and  a  place  for  washing,  like  a  cabin  in  a 
mail  steamer.  The  saloon  amidships,  with  the  mast 
coming  through  the  decks  at  the  fore-end,  had  a  broad 
lounge  on  the  port  side,  with  a  bookshelf  above  it; 
and  on  the  starboard  side  there  were  curved  lockers 
and  a  table.  This  was  a  comfortable  and  cheerful 
place,  despite  its  smoky  roof  and  the  extreme  sim- 
plicity of  its  fittings.  There  was  a  fireplace  and 
mantelpiece  at  the  end  nearest  the  bows,  and  a  cup- 
board for  crockery  and  provisions  against  the  forward 
bulkhead. 

H 


98  THE   CAGE 

They  went  forward,  and  he  showed  her  the  little 
fore-peak  where  he  kept  his  Primus  stove,  his  oil,  his 
spare  gear,  and  where  he  did  his  cooking.  Through 
the  chain-pipe  in  the  deck  above  ran  the  links  of  his 
cable,  massive  and  rusty ;  the  end  of  this  monster  lay 
on  the  floor  in  a  thick  and  clumsy  coil.  "One  realizes 
your  journeys  looking  at  this  chain,"  said  Anne. 

"There  are  two  sounds  I  am  very  fond  of,"  he  said; 
"the  running  out  and  the  coming  home  of  a  cable." 

She  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "  Arrival 
and  Departure  ?  " 

"Yes." 

They  climbed  by  the  steep  companion  to  the  deck, 
and  sat  down  in  the  sun  on  the  cabin  top,  leaning 
their  backs  against  the  folds  of  the  stowed  mainsail. 

"Do  you  like  her?"  Hugh  asked. 

"Yes;  she's  workmanlike;  a  traveller." 

He  said  that  he  had  built  her  in  the  same  spirit  as 
that  in  which  Dr.  Primrose  had  chosen  his  wife  and 
she  her  wedding-gown.  He  described  her  good 
qualities.  "You  must  excuse  my  enthusiasm,"  he 
said,  laughing;  "this  is  my  home,  my  doll's 
house." 

"Why  did  you  call  her  the  Sand  Wasp?" 

"The  sand  wasp,"  he  said,  "is  a  little  insect  which 
never  sees  its  father  or  its  mother,  and  which  hasn't 
the  least  notion  in  the  world  how  it  came  into  exist- 
ence. It  finds  itself  alive,  and  that  is  all.  But  when 
the  time  arrives  for  this  creature  to  lay  its  eggs,  it 
deposits  them  in  the  sand,  and  surrounds  them  with 
the  food  exactly  suitable  for  the  young,  but  which  is 


THE   SAND    WASP  99 

food  that  she  herself  does  not  eat.  Then  off  she 
goes."  He  turned  and  looked  at  his  companion.  "I 
know  just  about  as  much  of  myself  as  the  awaking 
sand  wasp,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  gave  my  home  a 
companionable  name." 


CHAPTER   IX 


ONE  day,  at  a  party  given  by  the  Henry  Pleasants, 
conversation  turned  upon  marriage.  Mr.  Aldrich  had 
preached  an  extraordinary  sermon  on  the  previous 
day,  denouncing  with  fiery  eloquence  the  modern 
world's  impatience  of  the  sanctity  of  marriage. 

Among  the  guests  were  Anne  Paton  and  Hugh 
Napier. 

Miss  Potter,  secretary  to  the  Girls'  Friendly  Society 
in  Borhaven,  a  most  masterful  Sunday-school  teacher, 
and  a  district  visitor  who  was  far  too  sharp  ever  to  be 
imposed  upon,  declared  boldly  that  the  sermon  was 
not  a  whit  too  strong  and  deserved  to  be  printed. 

The  general  feeling  among  the  numerous  Miss 
Lotts  seemed  to  favour  the  gentle  idea,  expressed  in  a 
murmur,  that  perhaps  Mr.  Aldrich  looked  too  much 
on  the  black  side  of  things. 

Henry  Pleasant,  who  was  modest  and  self-con- 
scious, a  tall,  thin,  hatchet-faced  man,  quite  unlike 
the  average  naval  officer,  suggested  that  the  marriage 
laws  pressed  hardly  on  certain  people. 

The  voice  of  Ramsay  M*  Gavin  broke  in  upon  this 
tentative  discussion. 

100 


i857  ioi 

"I  will  make  a  remark,"  he  said  in  his  solemn  way. 
Everybody  turned  to  look  at  the  doctor.  "  The  Act  of 
1857,"  ne  went  on,  folding  his  arms  over  his  breast, 
and  crossing  his  legs,  "is  condemned  by  every  intelli- 
gent man  who  has  studied  it.  Great  suffering, 
exceeding  cruelty,  and  enormous  immorality  are  the 
only  fruits,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  of  that  pernicious, 
ill-considered  and  bigoted  enactment.  I  have  not 
had  the  advantage  of  hearing  the  sermon  to  which 
reference  has  been  made,  but  I  take  it  that  Mr.  Aldrich 
limited  himself  to  the  rhetoric  of  this  question,  and 
made  no  excursion  into  the  domain  of  actual  experi- 
ence. He  is  probably  not  aware,  for  instance,  that 
the  number  of  men  and  women  whose  husbands  are 
incarcerated  in  lunatic  asylums,  and  who  can  get 
no  release  from  their  impossible  union,  is  something 
like  sixty  thousand.  The  children  of  the  husbands 
are  denied  stepmothers ;  the  children  of  the  wives  are 
denied  breadwinners.  I  do  not  know  whether  this 
state  of  things  commends  itself  to  the  religious  con- 
science; but  I  can  say  with  confidence  that  science 
regards  it  as  irrational,  dangerous,  and  against  the 
best  interests  of  the  State." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  there  was  a  low 
murmur  of  amazement  at  the  number  of  men  and 
women  in  society  deprived  by  insanity  of  their  wives 
and  husbands.  Miss  Potter,  whose  cheeks  had  red- 
dened a  little,  and  whose  eyes  blinked  and  shone, 
kept  a  challenging  gaze  fixed  upon  the  doctor. 

"Mr.  Aldrich  is  also  probably  unaware,"  resumed 
M' Gavin,  "of  the  profound  problem  which  the  Act 


102  THE   CAGE 

of  1857  has  introduced  into  the  body  politic  by  making 
it  comparatively  easy  to  get  a  separation  order.  These 
separation  orders  do  not  allow  of  re-marriage.  The 
number  annually  granted  in  this  country  is  some- 
where in  the  neighbourhood  of  ten  thousand.  It  must 
be  borne  in  mind  that  ten  thousand  separation  orders 
affect  twenty  thousand  human  beings.  Now,  a  very 
little  reflection  should  be  sufficient  to  make  even  an 
ordinarily  obtuse  intellect  cognisant  of  the  grave 
situation  produced  by  separating  every  year  twenty 
thousand  men  and  women,  and  forbidding  them  ever 
to  marry  again.  If  their  relations  justify  separation, 
their  humanity  justifies  re-marriage.  I  am  on  delicate 
ground." 

"I  think,"  said  Miss  Potter,  "that  the  law  has  no 
right  to  separate  them." 

"But  the  fact  stands,"  replied  M'Gavin,  "that  the 
law  does  separate  them." 

"Then,"  said  Miss  Potter  quickly,  seeing  light  and 
immediately  beginning  to  get  up  steam,  "if  they  can't 
agree,  and  if  they  choose  to  be  legally  separated — 
denying,  mind  you,  their  solemn  altar  vows — if  they 
do  that,  let  them  suffer;  they  deserve  to  suffer." 

She  panted  with  the  strength  of  her  conviction. 

"I  am  willing  to  agree  with  you,"  began  Dr. 
M'Gavin;  but  Miss  Potter  got  off  again. 

"  If  for  some  trumpery  reason  of  temper  or  disposi- 
tion they  go  into  the  law  courts  and  get  an  order  for 
separation,"  she  said  vigorously,  "they  invite  what- 
ever suffering  comes  to  them;  they  bring  it  on  them- 
selves. No  two  people,  I  should  think,  ever  agreed. 


1857  I03 

Marriage,  I  have  always  understood,  is  a  give-and- 
take  arrangement.  A  nice  state  of  things,  if  every 
man  who  had  a  tiff  with  his  wife  ran  off  to  the  magis- 
trate and  got  a  separation  order !  Those  who  do 
choose  to  do  such  a  thing — cowards  and  sneaks  and 
feeble  creatures,  I  call  them — instead  of  deserving  our 
pity  merit  our  most  unmitigated  contempt  1  " 

People  smiled  and  agreed. 

"As  I  remarked  a  moment  ago,"  said  Dr.  M'Gavin, 
"I  am  perfectly " 

With  a  toss  of  her  head  away  from  him,  feeling 
that  she  now  had  the  suffrages  of  the  meeting  entirely 
on  her  side,  Miss  Potter  was  off  again.  "Marriage," 
she  said,  "isn't  forced  upon  these  people.  They  do  it 
themselves.  It's  their  own  act,  their  own  choice. 
They  know  perfectly  well  what  they  are  about.  They 
are  not  children.  If  they  make  a  mistake  it's  their 
own  fault.  A  man  who  marries  an  empty-head  doll 
deserves  to  suffer.  A  woman  who  marries  a  good- 
for-nothing  man  deserves  all  she  gets.  No  one  forced 
them  into  these  unions.  A  pretty  condition  of  things, 
if  the  consequences  of  our  own  wilful  misdoing  are 
to  be  an  excuse  for  altering  the  laws  of  the  land ! 
When  I  hear  of  unhappy  marriages  I  say,  They  did 
it  themselves.  People  go  about  the  world  seeming 
to  think  that  marriage  is  ordered  by  the  policeman 
and  consummated,  if  I  may  use  the  word,  by  the  tax- 
collector.  They  talk  about  it  as  if  it  was  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  conscription.  Marriage  is  a 
person's  own  choice.  I  don't  care  how  young  the  girl 
is  or  how  green  the  man  is,  they  are  both  at  a  time 


104  THE   CAGE 

of  life  when  anybody  who  is  going  to  be  any  good 
at  all  ought  to  have  common-sense.  If  they  haven't 
got  common-sense  they  are  a  nuisance  to  the  rest  of 
the  world.  Experience  is  a  school  for  fools  as  well 
as  for  wise  men;  it  certainly  isn't  a  sweet-shop  or  a 
kindergarten.  People  have  no  right  to  blame  the 
laws.  Whatever  happens,  they  do  it  themselves." 

Again  the  vigorous  views  of  Miss  Potter  met  with 
the  general  approbation.  Henry  Pleasant,  however, 
had  a  modest  notion  that  she  had  not  exhausted 
the  subject.  "Dr.  M'Gavin,  I  think,  wants  to 
say  something,"  he  said  diffidently,  with  an  air  of 
apology. 

"Dr.  M'Gavin,"  said  Miss  Potter,  "is  a  medical 
man,  and  ought  to  know  better  than  to  talk  nonsense. 
Oh,  it's  no  laughing  matter.  If  he  goes  into  the 
houses  of  poor  people  telling  them  that  they  have  a 
perfect  right  to  separate  and  live  how  they  like,  we 
shall  soon  have  pandemonium.  What  people  require 
to  be  told  is  that  they  must  do  their  duty.  People 
don't  want  slacking;  they  want  tightening  up.  All 
this  talk  of  democracy  and  the  rights  of  man  and 
the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  number,  is  a 
slacking  of  the  human  race.  If  you  want  to  see  a 
dirty  doorstep,  a  miserable  kitchen,  starving  children 
and  disgusting  parents,  go  into  the  houses  of  Bor- 
haven  where  the  men  talk  about  their  rights.  Religi- 
ous people — people  who  don't  talk  about  their  rights 
but  who  do  their  duty — keep  a  clean  doorstep,  have 
a  bright  kitchen^  bake  their  own  bread,  take  a  pride 


i857  105 

in  their  children,  and  would  rather  starve  than  beg 
or  go  on  the  parish.  These  things  are  the  facts  of 
life.  People  go  up  in  the  sky  and  forget  facts  when 
they  talk  about  ideas.  Dr.  M'Gavin  knows  as  well  as 
I  do  that  these  things  are  facts.  Slack  a  person,  and 
you  send  him  to  ruin.  Screw  him  up,  and  you  keep 
him  moving.  All  this  talk  about  the  hardships  of 
marriage  laws  is  a  slacking  of  society.  It  means 
ruin." 

One  of  the  Miss  Lotts  suddenly  remembered  that 
Anne  Paton  was  living  separated  from  her  husband. 
She  glanced  across  the  room  as  Miss  Potter  was 
speaking,  saw,  or  thought  she  saw,  a  look  of  pain 
in  Anne's  face,  and  immediately  whispered  to  one 
of  her  sisters  that  it  would  be  well  to  change  the 
subject. 

Miss  Potter  noticed  this  whispering  and  stopped 
abruptly.  Her  flushed  cheeks  became  suddenly 
scarlet  under  the  terrible  misgiving  that  she  had  said 
something  indelicate.  Her  stricken  pause  was  the 
doctor's  opportunity. 

"I  should  like  to  make  one  addendum  to  my 
previous  remarks,"  he  said,  with  a  steady  persistency 
which  admitted  of  no  interruptions.  "I  am  perfectly 
willing  to  say  that  the  sixty  thousand  people  with 
their  mates  in  lunatic  asylums,  and  the  twenty  thou- 
sand people  annually  separated  but  not  divorced, 
constitute  a  negligible  section  of  the  community.  I 
will  even  go  so  far  as  to  say  with  Miss  Potter,  though 
I  doubt  the  Christian  character  of  the  remark,  Let 


I06  THE   CAGE 

them  suffer.  But,  what  of  their  children  ?  Let  us  be 
careful.  We  are  speaking  of  posterity." 

Before  Miss  Potter  could  make  a  reply  the  numerous 
family  of  the  Lotts  made  an  imposing  diversion,  by 
rising  to  take  leave  of  their  hostess. 

Napier  walked  back  with  Anne. 

The  conversation,  curiously  enough,  had  made  them 
think  of  each  other.  Anne  had  felt  that  Miss  Potter's 
remarks  must  have  hurt  Napier  in  the  person  of  his 
mother;  Napier  had  felt,  with  the  Miss  Lotts,  that  the 
discussion  must  be  painful  to  the  separated  wife  of 
Richard  Paton. 

When  Anne  had  gone  out,  Mrs.  Pleasant  said,  "I 
never  thought  of  Mrs.  Paton  !  I  hope  she  didn't 
think  we  were  talking  of  her." 

To  which  Miss  Potter  made  reply,  "She  was  not 
in  my  mind,  but  I  rejoice  that  she  was  present." 

Darkness  was  falling  over  the  earth  as  Napier  and 
Anne  left  the  lighted  streets  of  Borhaven  behind  them 
and  entered  the  wide  fields  through  which  a  narrow 
path  led  to  the  creek.  A  few  stars  were  visible.  A 
cold  wind  blew  from  the  north.  The  sound  of  the 
sea  came  to  them  in  a  dull  monotone. 

Refreshed  by  the  coldness  and  confident  in  the  dark- 
ness, Anne  said  to  Napier,  "Who  do  you  think  had 
the  best  of  the  duel  ?  " 

He  laughed.  "M'Gavin  always  amuses  me.  His 
measured  utterance,  his  professorial  manner,  his 
dramatic  tone,  his  expression  of  pompous  gravity — he 
is  the  least  conversational  of  men." 


i857  107 

"And  Miss  Potter?" 

"She  has  the  crudeness  which  inspires,  the  energy 
which  acts,  the  common-sense  which  achieves.  It 
would  be  easy  to  laugh  at  Miss  Potter.  But  the 
world  is  better  for  her.  I  always  admire  people  who 
do  things." 

"And  her  opinions?" 

He  was  afraid  to  cause  her  pain,  and  said  that  the 
question  of  the  discussion  was  too  big  for  settlement 
across  cold  tea-cups. 

"I  think  that  I  am  on  the  side  of  Ramsay 
M 'Gavin,"  she  said.  "Oh,  yes,  I  am  altogether  on 
his  side.  What  a  barbarity  to  force  people  to  live 
together  who  cannot  agree.  Think  of  it  in  a  little 
house,  where  they  cannot  avoid  each  other !  The 
daily,  hourly  jar  upon  the  nerves  :  the  perpetual  irrita- 
tion :  the  continued  absence  of  peace  and  tranquillity  : 
the  mind  always  living  in  a  state  of  siege.  How 
dreadful !  Why  should  they  live  this  cat-and-dog 
life  ?  They  are  human  beings.  Their  lives  ought  to 
be  as  beautiful  as  possible ;  they  are  made  as  wretched 
as  it  is  possible  to  conceive." 

"  No  doubt  the  marriage  laws  press  hardly  on  certain 
people." 

"I  am  quite  with  Ramsay  M'Gavin.  He  is  pomp- 
ous and  a  little  ridiculous ;  but  he  is  right." 

"No;  he  is  wrong." 

She  was  surprised  by  this  sudden  challenge,  and 
turned  her  eyes  to  look  at  him.  He  was  walking 
beside  her  in  the  stubble,  which  was  a  little  lower 


io8  THE   CAGE 

than  the  footpath ;  the  obscure  profile  of  his  face  was 
on  a  level  with  her  own.  She  could  see  in  the  dark- 
ness a  vague  seriousness  hardening  the  shadowy  out- 
line of  his  face.  His  eyes  were  looking  straight  ahead 
of  him. 

"  Why  is  he  wrong  ?  "  she  asked. 

"He  is  tampering  with  the  fundamentals  of  human 
society." 

She  made  no  answer. 

"In  particular  cases  he  might  seem  right;  but  for 
humanity  in  general  he  is  wrong." 

"You  think  the  human  race  is  not  to  be  trusted  ?  " 

"I  am  sure  that  civilization  depends  upon  man's 
respect  for  woman." 

She  thought  over  this  remark,  and  they  walked  on 
in  silence.  The  noise  of  his  boots  brushing  against 
the  hard  stubble  made  a  rhythmic  and  liquid  accom- 
paniment to  her  thoughts.  His  long  stride  had  a 
quality  of  persistence  which  suggested  destiny.  In 
the  darkness,  with  the  cold  wind  blowing  through  her 
and  past  her,  she  felt  as  though  something  cruel  and 
inexorable  was  following  her,  that  escape  was  im- 
possible. 

"Marriage,"  he  said  presently,  "has  given  woman 
her  position  of  honour  and  respect.  To  preserve  that 
position  is  essential.  Like  music,  woman  either  exalts 
man  or  degrades  him.  Civilization  is  the  work  of 
men,  but  it  is  in  the  hands  of  women." 

"I  agree  with  you;  but  unhappy  marriages  do  not 
make  for  anything  useful.  To  dissolve  them  would 


1857 

not  injure  happy  marriages.  On  the  contrary,  un- 
happy marriages  tend  to  discredit  the  marriage  state. 
Why  shouldn't  people  be  happy?" 

It  was  his  turn  to  keep  silence. 

"Why  shouldn't  they  be  happy?  "  she  asked. 

"Miss  Potter  would  tell  you  that  we  are  not  here 
to  be  happy." 

"But  do  you  believe  that?" 

"I  believe  that  discipline  is  more  essential  than 
gratification." 

"But  it  is  a  natural  impulse  to  wish  to  be  happy?" 

"That  impulse  carries  us  beyond  this  earth,  into  the 
universe  up  yonder " — he  looked  for  a  moment  to- 
wards the  stars.  "To  be  satisfied  here  is  impossible. 
Directly  one  begins  to  think,  one  knows  that  happi- 
ness here  is  a  will-o'-th'-wisp.  The  pessimism  of 
philosophy,  from  Job  to  Schopenhauer,  is  its  optim- 
ism. The  natural  impulse  for  happiness  is  bigger 
than  the  satisfactions  of  the  earth.  It  is  immortal. 
We  can't  be  happy  here,  because  we  belong  to  the 
infinite.  A  man  who  is  satisfied  with  this  life  is  an 
animal." 

"Still,  I  think  one  may  try  to  put  an  end  to 
wretchedness." 

"Not  at  the  cost  of  discipline." 

"  You  are  a  Calvinist  I  " 

"Perhaps." 

"Where  did  you  find  your  religion?" 

"In  the  world." 

"Your  seriousness  surprises  me." 


no  THE   CAGE 

"You  have  touched  one  of  the  two  subjects  on  which 
I  am  always  serious." 

"Marriage?" 

"The  restraints  of  society /* 

"And  the  other  subject?" 

"Children." 

"Ramsay  M' Gavin  is  serious  on  that  subject,  too." 

"He  would  build  his  posterity  without  a  foundation. 
To-morrow  is  nothing  without  to-day." 

She  said  to  him,  half-laughing,  "You  are  almost 
as  terrible  as  Mr.  Aldrich." 

"I  have  no  objection  to  laughter.  It  depends  on 
one's  mood.  Sometimes  I  am  inclined  to  rail  at  the 
world;  sometimes  to  laugh  at  it.  But  my  principles 
**  remain  the  same." 

"On  the  whole,  I  think  it  is  better  to  laugh." 

"It  depends  on  the  mood." 

"You  were  serious  as  a  boy." 

"Anything  is  better  than  tittering." 

"Perhaps  you  live  too  much  alone." 

"At  sea  one  is  never  alone.  On  shore  I  mix  with 
all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men.  It  seems  a  lonely  life, 
but  it  isn't,  really.  If  I  had  a  hand  on  board  I  should 
be  conscious  of  solitude." 

They  came  through  a  gate  and  made  the  descent 
of  the  little  cliff  to  the  cottage. 

"You  are  coming  in  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Not  to-night." 

"But  do;  we  can  give  you  dinner." 

He  thanked  her,  but  refused. 


1857  in 

As  she  gave  him  her  hand  she  said,  "Next  time  we 
meet  I  shall  want  you  to  laugh  at  the  enemies  of  your 
principles." 

"I  hope  I  haven't  depressed  you." 

"  I  am  not  sure.  I  will  tell  you  when  we  meet  again. 
You  have  surprised  me." 


CHAPTER   X 

FLIGHTING 

A  MAN  who  sets  a  woman  thinking  makes  love  to 
her. 

Anne  began  to  think  about  Napier.  He  became  an 
obsession.  When  she  was  watching  the  gardener's 
winter  digging,  working  with  Minionette  in  the 
kitchen,  helping  Mrs.  Dobson  to  dress,  or  sitting  by 
herself  with  a  book,  this  enigmatical  man  presented 
himself  to  her  mind  and  became  the  master  of  her 
thoughts. 

A  step  on  the  path  of  millstones  made  her  look  ex- 
pectantly from  the  window;  she  was  disappointed 
when  the  visitor  was  not  Napier. 

His  opinions  on  marriage  were  more  than  a  surprise 
to  her;  they  were  an  irritation.  She  felt  vexed  with 
him.  If  his  experience  had  been  hers  would  he 
maintain  those  stringent  opinions  ?  It  was  impossible 
to  think  of  him  as  a  Puritan ;  he  could  not  really 
be  a  Calvinist ;  but  he  was  apparently  religious  with  a 
severity  that  struck  her  as  unusual  and  unpleasant. 

A  man  in  a  cassock  might  pardonably  hold  the 
views  of  Mr.  Aldrich ;  but  these  views  did  not 
fit  a  man  of  the  world  who  sailed  the  seas  single- 


FLIGHTING  113 

handed,  who  knew  cities  and  men,  who  could  laugh 
and  be  amusing,  who  was  interesting  to  women,  and 
whose  attraction  was  his  strong  manhood. 

She  was  puzzled  to  know  from  whence  he  got  these 
severe  ideas.  His  presence  in  church  had  not  seemed 
strange  to  her ;  she  had  accepted  it  without  thinking 
as  part  of  the  formalism  and  conformity  of  the  age. 
His  visits  to  the  houses  of  poor  people,  his  kindness 
to  children,  his  benevolence  to  the  outcasts  at  whose 
doors  no  district  visitor  ever  knocked,  had  seemed  to 
her  the  expression  of  an  interest  and  a  curiosity  which 
a  student  of  humanity  might  exercise  without  mission- 
ary zeal.  The  idea  that  he  was  religious  struck  her  as 
strange  and  confusing.  She  was  disturbed  by  it. 
But  the  more  she  reflected  on  what  he  had  said  to  her 
during  that  walk  across  the  dark  fields  the  more  it 
came  home  to  her  that  this  quiet  and  interesting  man, 
whose  mind  had  once  seemed  an  open  book  to  her, 
was  religious.  This  thought,  as  we  have  said,  dis- 
turbed her. 

She  was  led  to  wonder  what  view  he  entertained 
of  her  own  situation.  Did  he,  too,  think  with  the 
interfering  and  impossible  priest  that  she  should  go 
back  to  her  husband,  go  back  to  a  life  that  was  hateful 
and  degrading,  and  attempt  to  save  a  soul  that  was 
dead  even  to  the  alphabet  of  refinement?  Would  he 
say  to  her  one  day,  It  is  God's  will  that  you  should 
go  back? 

It  seemed  to  her  impossible. 

The  next  time  she  saw  him,  much  to  her  disquiet, 

she   found   herself   self-conscious.     When    we   think 

i 


1 14  THE   CAGE 

incessantly  of  a  single  person  the  actual  presence  is 
sometimes  strangely  agitating. 

He  presented  himself  one  bitter  dark  evening  at 
Creek  Cottage,  with  a  large  duffle  coat  over  his  arm 
and  with  a  gun  in  his  hand.  He  wore  a  fisherman's 
jersey,  and  had  heavy  sea-boots  on  his  feet.  He  did 
not  enter  the  drawing-room,  but  stood  in  the  door. 
He  asked  Anne  if  she  would  like  to  make  experience 
with  flighting.  He  seemed  happy  and  vigorous. 
His  face  shone  from  the  exercise  of  rowing,  his  dark 
eyes  were  bright  and  animated.  This  cheerfulness  of 
his  demeanour,  reminiscent  of  their  childhood,  re- 
stored Anne's  composure.  Mrs.  Dobson,  on  her 
sofa,  regarded  him  over  her  spectacles  as  he  stood, 
cap  in  hand,  at  the  doorway.  "Ladylike  work,  killing 
ducks,"  she  said  maliciously. 

"It's  the  poetry  of  shooting,"  he  answered;  "it's 
not  the  killing  that's  good,  but  the  watching." 

"And  catching  cold." 

"Anne  must  wrap  up." 

To  be  with  him  pleased  her.  She  said  sfie  would 
come. 

While  she  was  up-stairs,  putting  on  thick  boots  and 
an  ulster,  Mrs.  Dobson  said  to  Napier,  "When  are 
you  going  to  Denmark?" 

"It  is  too  cold  now." 

"You  intend  to  stay  here?" 

"For  the  present." 

She  watched  him  with  a  steady  gaze  which  was 
almost  a  scrutiny.  "You  live  rather  an  idle  life,  don't 
you  ?  Is  that  wise  ?  Idleness,  you  know,  is  danger- 


FLIGHTING  115 

ous.  Why  don't  you  get  some  work  to  do,  marry, 
and  settle  down  ?  It  would  be  good  for  you." 

He  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  "  I  am  quite  safe," 
he  answered. 

She  seemed  about  to  speak,  but  checked,  and  turned 
to  her  book.  "In  the  meantime,  you  are  making  me 
sit  in  a  draught." 

"I  will  wait  outside."  He  wished  her  good-night, 
closed  the  door,  and  went  into  the  garden.  As  he 
stood  at  the  gate,  looking  back  to  the  cottage,  he  saw 
the  light  in  Anne's  window  and  her  shadow  on  the 
blind. 

Anne  came  down-stairs,  made  up  the  drawing- 
room  fire,  kissed  her  little  grandmother,  and  joined 
Napier  in  the  garden,  who  still  had  his  coat  over  his 
arm. 

It  was  quite  dark.  The  creek  was  almost  full. 
There  was  no  hard  blowing  wind,  but  the  air  stung 
the  face  and  hardened  the  flesh.  A  sense  of  ice  cold- 
ness came  from  the  ripples  of  the  river  breaking  on 
the  shingle  of  the  hard. 

They  got  upon  the  sea  wall  and  walked  in  Indian 
file  along  the  narrow  path.  The  grey-coloured  grass 
was  up  to  their  knees.  Not  a  sound  reached  their 
ears.  The  rising  river  flowed  without  noise  over  the 
saltings.  They  did  not  speak  after  their  first  sen- 
tences of  commonplace. 

When  they  had  gone  half-a-mile  up  the  creek 
Napier  slackened  his  pace  and  began  to  look  about 
him. 

"This  will  do,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.    "Do  you 
II 


ii6  THE   CAGE 

mind  lying  down  in  the  grass?  I  will  spread  my 
coat  for  you/' 

"  But  you  will  be  cold  ?  " 

"No;   I'm  well  wrapped  up." 

He  laid  the  duffle  coat  on  the  side  of  the  wall,  and 
she  lay  down,  the  grass  closing  about  her. 

"Somehow  this  reminds  me  of  Portobello,"  she 
said,  settling  herself  into  a  comfortable  position.  "It 
is  in  the  nature  of  an  adventure.  There's  something 
boyish  about  it." 

He  loaded  his  gun,  looked  down  the  creek  to  sea, 
then  across  the  marshes,  inclined  his  ear  to  the  sky, 
listening,  and  then  lay  down  in  the  long  grass  at  a 
little  distance  from  her. 

"It's  great  fun,  flighting,"  he  said,  "even  if  one 
doesn't  get  a  shot.  You'll  enjoy  hearing  the  duck 
go  over  our  heads — if  they  do  I  They  make  a  queer 
ghostly  noise,  and  it's  so  high  up,  something 
mysterious  about  it." 

They  kept  silence  for  some  time,  Napier  listening, 
Anne  thinking. 

"They're  wonderfully  clever  birds,"  he  said  in  his 
low  voice.  "They've  learned  by  experience  that  the 
marshes  aren't  safe  by  day.  They  go  out  to  sea 
and  wait  for  the  night  to  fall,  hungry  all  the  time. 
Then  they  come  creeping  across  the  skies  at  night  to 
feed  in  the  rivers." 

He  half  raised  himself  on  an  elbow,  listening. 
The  melancholy  cry  of  a  redshank  on  the  opposite 
shore  reached  their  ears.  "That's  the  policeman  of 


FLIGHTING  117 

waterfowl,"  he  whispered,  lying  down  flat.  "Some- 
thing is  moving." 

The  sound  ceased;  silence  settled  over  land 
and  river;  the  wind  began  to  move  through  the 
grass. 

Napier  looked  up  at  the  sky.  "I  hope  the  moon 
won't  show.  We  shan't  be  able  to  see  the  duck  if 
it  does." 

An  owl  skimmed  over  their  heads  and  glided  away 
into  the  darkness. 

"Birds  are  wonderful  creatures,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
which  brought  back  to  her  his  boyhood  in  an  extra- 
ordinary real  and  convincing  fashion;  it  was  as  if 
he  was  speaking  to  himself;  the  voice  was  low  and 
quiet,  and  sounded  strangely  in  the  silence  and  the 
darkness.  "No  one  can  explain  why  some  of  them 
live  to  be  a  hundred  and  over,  whilst  others  die  as 
young  as  a  dog.  What  makes  the  difference  in  time 
between  the  life  of  a  rook  and  a  blackbird  ?  " 

When  they  had  waited  some  time  he  turned  to- 
wards Anne,  and  said,  "It's  rather  horrible,  when 
you  think  of  it,  this  killing  of  wildfowl.  There's 
something  splendid  in  their  flight  from  the  Baltic; 
the  long  journey  through  all  kinds  of  weather;  the 
steady  beating  of  their  brave  wings  all  the  hungry, 
homeless  way,  and  then,  when  they  sight  rest  and 
food  at  last,  England  receives  them  with  a  charge  of 
shot.  What  a  welcome  !  what  a  reward  for  valour  ! 
But  flighting  isn't  so  bad  as  gunning.  Henry 
Pleasant  offered  me  the  use  of  his  punt  the  other  day; 


u8  THE   CAGE 

I  was  tempted,  but  I  resisted.  It's  curious  how 
conscience  interferes  even  in  the  small  things  of 
life." 

"Your  conscience,"  she  said,  smiling  and  speaking 
very  softly,  "is  much  more  sensitive  than  it  used  to 
be.  I  find  it  difficult  sometimes  to  attach  you  to 
Portobello.  The  only  link  seems  to  be  the  Sand 
Wasp.  In  everything  else  you  have  changed." 

"  I  used  to  be  rather  rude  to  you  !  I  was  as  rough 
as  could  be.  But  they  were  good  days.  I  often 
think  of  your  father." 

"It  was  great  fun  when  he  took  us  into  Edin- 
burgh." 

"Yes.  I  wish  I  could  thank  him  now.  A  boy 
never  realizes  kindness.  He  expects  it.  I  should 
like  to  thank  your  father." 

"I  think  he  was  quite  satisfied.  He  was  very  fond 
of  you." 

"His  influence  lasts  with  me,  which  is  something. 
He  was  one  of  the  best  men  I  have  ever  known." 
He  laughed.  "Doesn't  old  M 'Gavin  make  you  smile 
at  times  ? — the  way  in  which  he  tries  to  assume  your 
father's  manner  1  " 

Napier's  low  laughter  sounded  softly  in  the  still 
air. 

"One  thing  always  puzzles  me  about  my  father," 
she  said,  turning  on  her  side  and  looking  towards 
the  water.  "He  was  a  very  good  man,  as  you  say, 
but  he  wasn't  religious.  He  would  have  been  very 
hard,  for  instance,  on  Mr.  Aldrich." 

"  Would  he  ?     I  am  not  quite  sure." 


FLIGHTING  119 

"I  don't  think  he  would  even  applaud  some  of 
your  opinions  !  " 

"Mine!  "  He  turned  to  her,  smiling.  "You  are 
thinking  of  the  other  night.  I  am  afraid  I  rather 
depressed  you.  I  thought  about  it  afterwards.  You 
said  I  surprised  you,  and  as  I  walked  back  it  came 
to  me  that  I  had  forgotten  my  role  of  schoolfellow.  I 
might  have  been  addressing  a  public  meeting  1  " 

"But  you  hold  those  views." 

"I  might  have  expressed  them  differently." 

"You  would  still  be  a  disciple  of  our  Savonarola ! J1 

"Who  is  that?" 

"Mr.  Aldrich." 

"I  have  heard  him  preach.  I  rather  approve  of 
him.  He  has  the  courage  and  common  sense  to 
preach  a  hell.  That  brings  us  back  to  your  father. 
Your  father  wasn't  really  a  man  without  religion; 
he  hated  evil;  he  was  only  opposed  to  a  particular 
form  of  religion  which  happened  to  surround  him 
and  interfere  with  his  work.  I  am  not  at  all  sure 
that  he  wouldn't  have  seen  good  in  a  man  like 
Aldrich."  He  stopped  speaking  for  a  moment,  pluck- 
ing at  the  grass  in  front  of  him.  "You  see,  Anne," 
he  resumed,  speaking  slowly,  as  though  troubled 
about  the  choice  of  his  words,  "there  is  really  an 
unmistakable  need  now-a-days  for  recovering  some 
of  humanity's  ancient  landmarks;  one  can't  go  about 
the  world,  meet  people,  read  books  and  newspapers, 
study  the  condition  of  society  and  watch  the  move- 
ments of  politics  without  feeling  that  people  are 
making  the  most  dangerous  and  foolhardy  experi- 


120  THE   CAGE 

ments  with  civilization.  It's  like  an  engineer  trying 
experiments  with  the  engines  of  a  battleship  in  mid- 
ocean.  A  great  many  things  in  civilization  are 
ridiculous,  but  the  fundamentals  are  essential.  One 
can't  help  being  serious  when  flippancy  on  the  one 
side  and  materialism  on  the  other  are  reducing  life 
to  a  meaningless  experiment.  Anarchy  is  the  only 
result.  I  have  met  several  intelligent  anarchists  in 
Spain;  they  are  much  more  logical  and  consistent 
than  the  socialists,  materialists,  and  flaneurs  of  Pro- 
testant countries;  if  there  is  no  God,  no  hereafter, 
no  conscience,  and  no  progress  of  the  spiritual  life, 
this  life  becomes  a  scramble,  a  chaos  of  self-assertion 
and  greed.  Anything  else  is  irrational.  What  is 
evil  if  there  is  no  good,  and  what  is  good  if  there  is 
no  God  ?  The  State  makes  crime,  but  the  conscience 
makes  iniquity.  Do  away  with  conscience,  and  only 
the  policeman  is  left.  Do  you  think  a  policeman 
can  carry  the  human  race  as  far  as,  let  us  say,  St. 
Paul,  to  go  no  higher?  Who  can  really  say  that 
literature  would  be  safer  with  Oscar  Wilde  for  its 
authority  than  Wordsworth? — or  art,  with  Aubrey 
Beardsley  than  Michael  Angelo? — or  politics,  with 
Horace  Walpole  than  Burke  or  Garibaldi?  I  think 
everybody  must  feel  conscious  of  a  hell  and  ruin  in 
front  of  the  human  race  if  the  main  road  of  advance 
is  not  to  be  treated  seriously.  And  I  can't  conceive 
where  the  quality  of  seriousness  is  to  be  found  if  we 
rule  out  a  destiny  in  the  infinite." 

He  got  upon  an  elbow,  and  turned  towards  her. 
"You  would  be  quite  as  serious  as  I  am,"  he  said,  "if 


FLIGHTING  121 

you  knew  how  flippancy  is  gaining  ground  all  over 
the  world,  among  the  great  powers,  as  the  chief  force 
of  social  life.  The  great  powers,  by  the  way,  are 
few  in  number.  The  vast  majority  of  nations  are 
savages.  That  is  important  to  remember.  As  for 
this  spirit  of  flippancy  it  is  the  most  detestable  spirit 
in  the  world.  It  belittles  the  universe,  dwarfs  exist- 
ence, and  makes  men  and  women  horrible.  One 
laughs  at  the  smooth  creatures  who  creep  about  the 
drawing-rooms  of  the  world  with  insidious  sneers  and 
poisonous  mockery;  but  they  are  really  as  dangerous 
as  microbes.  Atheism  is  a  lion  or  a  tiger;  flippancy 
is  a  bacillus.  If  you  would  know  how  deadly  this 
bacillus  is,  go  into  Russian  society.  Nothing  is  more 
horrible  than  a  godless  nation.  I  am  serious  because 
I  loathe  the  titterer;  and  I  loathe  him  because  I  see 
his  danger.  If  civilization  were  something  perma- 
nent and  impossible  of  destruction  I  should  not  be 
afraid  of  flippancy.  But  civilization,  when  one 
knows  the  nations  of  the  world,  is  a  candle  in  the 
midst  of  a  hurricane.  A  few  men  in  a  very  few 
nations  represent  the  soul  of  civilization." 

"I  can  agree  with  everything  you  say,"  she  an- 
swered. "I  shouldn't  at  all  like  you  to  be  flippant." 

"To  come  back  to  your  father,"  he  said;  but  she 
interrupted  him. 

"I  want  just  to  say  this.  One  can  be  dissatisfied 
with  human  laws  and  wish  to  alter  them,  without 
being  either  flippant  or  irreligious.  No  one  would 
accuse  Ramsay  M'Gavin  of  flippancy  !  " 

He  made  no  reply  for  a  moment.     Something  in 


122  THE   CAGE 

his  silence  warned  her.  She  experienced  that  strange 
telepathic  sensation  of  expectation  and  disquiet  which 
tells  us  that  our  companion  is  going  to  bring  con- 
versation home  to  us,  to  make  it  intimate  and 
personal.  She  wondered  what  he  would  say  to  her. 

"Since  I  last  saw  you,"  he  said,  slowly  and  diffi- 
dently, "  I  have  thought  a  good  deal  of  our  talk  about 
marriage.  I  was  discussing  the  matter  in  a  general 
way,  in  the  abstract.  Perhaps — (it's  rather  difficult 
to  put  it  nicely) — you  were  thinking  of  an  individual 
case.  We  are  very  old  friends,  Anne,  but  even 
brothers  and  sisters  sometimes  find  it  delicate  work 
to  talk  about  their  own  private  affairs;  perhaps  you 
would  rather  I  didn't  say  anything  more?" 

She  found  it  difficult  to  make  an  answer.  For 
some  reasons  she  would  have  liked  to  discuss  her 
own  experience  with  this  man;  she  even  had  a  feel- 
ing that  it  was  necessary,  to  justify  her  point  of 
view.  At  the  same  time,  a  feeling  of  constraint  held 
her  back;  in  some  unaccountable  fashion  her 
marriage  made  her  ashamed;  it  seemed  to  degrade 
her. 

But  curiosity,  that  most  potent  impulse  in  women, 
settled  her  decision. 

"You  are  thinking  of  my  own  experience?"  she 
asked,  without  looking  at  him.  "I  don't  think  it 
influences  my  ideas.  You  see,  it  doesn't  interfere 
with  my  life.  I  am  quite  free." 

"No;  you  are  scarcely  free,  Anne.  I  mean,  you 
can't  marry  again." 

"But  I   don't  want  to.    I  am   perfectly  content. 


FLIGHTING  123 

No;  my  own  case  doesn't  influence  me.  I  think  of 
people  tied  to  each  other  in  one  house,  who  can't 
escape  from  one  another,  who  live  a  double  life  in 
one,  who  are  perpetually  miserable,  wretched,  and 
irked.  That  seems  to  me  a  shameful  existence,  un- 
thinkable. And,  after  all,  marriage  is  a  human 
arrangement,  so  that  one  doesn't  see  why  its  regula- 
tions should  not  be  improved." 

She  wanted  to  discuss  her  own  experience;  she 
wanted  to  tell  her  own  story ;  she  wanted  to  discover 
what  he  thought  about  it;  but  the  difficulty,  the 
delicacy  of  such  a  colloquy  had  unconsciously  urged 
her  away  from  the  personal  point  of  view. 

"Don't  you  think  that  marriage  is  important  just 
because  it  is  a  human  arrangement?"  he  asked 
quietly.  "Humanity  makes  law  for  its  own  well- 
being.  Because  marriage  is  such  a  fundamental  and 
essential  thing,  men  like  Aldrich  resist  any  tampering 
with  its  safeguards.  The  human  race  can't  afford  to 
make  experiments  with  its  foundations.  The  religious 
point  of  view,  which  so  many  people  consider  intoler- 
ant, is  founded,  after  all,  upon  the  instruction  of  One 
who  said  that  the  Sabbath  is  made  for  man  and  not 
man  for  the  Sabbath.  The  interests  of  humanity 
were  certainly  never  closer  to  any  man's  heart  than 
they  were  to  His.  He,  quite  evidently,  attached 
enormous  importance  to  the  sanctity  of  marriage." 

"And  yet,"  she  said,  rather  wearily,  "one  cannot 
be  blind  to  all  this  wretchedness  and  misery." 

"  Isn't  it  possible  to  exaggerate  the  wretchedness, 
and  to  attribute  to  marriage  the  misery  which  is 


i24  THE   CAGE 

really  due  to  quite  different  causes?  You  spoke 
about  people  tied  to  each  other  in  one  house.  In 
the  words  of  Miss  Potter,  They  did  it  themselves ! 
That  remark  of  hers  can  be  developed.  I  don't 
believe  that  any  difference  can  be  irreconcilable  be- 
tween a  man  and  a  woman  who  have  been  married. 
They  may  make  it  so,  but,  in  fact,  it  is  not.  It  is 
inconceivable  that  any  feud  should  be  everlasting  and 
hopeless  between  two  people  who  have  once  been  man 
and  wife.  There  must  be  somewhere,  on  one  side  or 
the  other,  the  materials  for  a  good  understanding. 
Then  the  question  follows,  Is  it  better  for  them  that 
they  should  fly  asunder  and  follow  their  own  inclina- 
tions wherever  they  lead,  or  that  they  set  themselves 
to  fulfil  their  vows,  practise  forbearance,  seek  points 
of  agreement,  and  make  the  best  of  each  other? 
There  is  no  doubt  which  is  the  wiser  course  to  preach 
to  democracy.  The  other  seems  to  me  dangerous." 

She  was  profoundly  serious  now.  "What  you 
have  said  sounds  as  if  it  should  be  true.  Believe  me, 
it  is  not.** 

The  tone  of  her  voice  brought  him  from  the  general 
to  the  particular.  There  seemed  to  be  pain  in  her 
words.  He  felt  sorry  that  he  had  said  what  he  had 
said.  Her  own  story,  the  drama  of  her  own  life,  the 
passion  of  her  own  soul,  began  to  press  upon  him. 
He  wondered  what  she  had  suffered,  what  the  differ- 
ences were  which  had  sundered  her  from  Paton.  For 
the  first  time  it  came  home  to  him  that  she  had 
definitely  suffered.  This  realization  pained  him;  it 
shocked  him.  That  the  marriage  had  been  what 


FLIGHTING  125 

people  call  "unhappy"  he  knew;  until  now  it  had 
never  occurred  to  him  that  she  had  experienced  pain. 
It  hurt  him  to  think  that  she  had. 

"You  forget,"  she  said,  in  the  same  low  voice  of 
deep  feeling,  "the  age  at  which  many  people  are 
married;  not  marry,  but,  are  married.  A  girl  who 
is  quite  ignorant  of  the  world  and  who  is  married  by 
her  mother  before  she  has  really  looked  at  life,  may 
find  with  experience  that  the  differences  existing  be- 
tween her  husband  and  herself  are  irreconcilable. 
What  happens,  do  you  think,  in  the  case  where  the 
one  goes  on  developing  and  maturing,  and  the  other 
remains  stationary?  Would  you  say  that  the  differ- 
ences of  disposition  and  character  and  taste,  which 
must  develop  from  such  a  condition  of  things,  are 
fairly  to  be  described  as  reconcilable?  I  assure  you 
they  are  not." 

"What  you  say,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "sounds 
dreadful.  You  make  me  think.  I  can't  say  any 
more." 

His  principles  remained  unshaken.  But  how  could 
he  prescribe  for  the  human  race  with  the  pain  of  one 
soul  so  close  and  near  to  his  sympathy  ? 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  long  time. 

A  faint  sound  came  to  their  ears,  high  up  and 
distant  in  the  sky. 

Napier  became  instantly  alert.  "Crouch!"  he 
whispered,  laying  hands  on  his  gun.  She  saw  the 
dark  outline  of  his  face  in  the  long  grass;  it  ex- 
pressed excitement,  pleasure,  some  wonderful  con- 
centration of  purpose.  She  recognized  the  hunter. 


126  THE   CAGE 

"Look!"  he  whispered,  without  turning  to  her; 
"here  they  come;  do  you  see  that  jolly  old  mallard 
leading  the  way?  Listen  to  the  noise." 

The  whiffle  in  the  air  grew  more  distinct. 

Suddenly  Napier  got  upon  one  knee,  at  the  same 
instant  the  gun  rose  to  his  shoulder.  For  a  moment 
Anne  was  conscious  of  alarm  among  the  string  of 
birds  in  the  air,  then,  quickly  following  each  other, 
the  two  barrels  emptied  themselves  into  the  night. 

Napier  dropped  his  gun,  rose  to  his  feet,  and  dis- 
appeared over  the  wall  in  the  direction  of  the  marshes. 
In  the  distance  a  dog  began  to  bark. 

Anne  sat  up.  The  air  was  full  of  disturbing 
melancholy  cries.  A  flight  of  little  birds,  making  a 
strange  creaking  sound  with  their  wings,  passed 
rapidly  down  the  creek,  flying  low  to  the  water.  The 
raucous  note  of  a  goose  came  from  the  other  side. 
A  heron  beat  its  way  out  of  the  reeds  a  little  distance 
up  the  river,  and  with  dangling  legs  made  for  the 
opposite  bank,  the  tips  of  its  wide  wings  striking  the 
water.  Over  the  marshes  numerous  owls  were  wheel- 
ing in  a  state  of  panic,  like  ghosts  new  to  purgatory. 
The  wind  seemed  to  make  the  grasses  afraid.  The 
whole  night  was  ruffled.  The  echoes  of  the  gun 
appeared  to  live  in  the  distant  woods.  Death  had 
spoken.  The  peace  of  the  earth  was  shattered. 
Anne  became  aware  of  a  colder  coldness  in  the  night. 

She  stood  up,  lifting  the  duffle  coat  from  the  bank, 
which  was  wet  and  felt  extraordinarily  heavy.  She 
stood  upon  the  wall  looking  in  the  direction  taken 
by  Napier.  The  dykes  intersecting  the  marshes  were 


FLIGHTING  127 

dimly  discernible.  She  could  see  the  owls  that  were 
close  to  her.  Presently  she  saw  the  dark  figure  of 
Napier  stooping  and  groping  with  his  hands  on  the 
ground.  She  watched  him  moving  round  in  a 
gradually  increasing  circle,  now  visible  and  now  in- 
visible, becoming  at  one  moment  a  part  of  the  dark- 
ness, at  the  next  a  shadow  moving  through  the 
gloom. 

She  saw  him  make  a  sudden  movement,  pick  some- 
thing up,  and  then  turn  towards  her.  He  came  with 
swift  strides,  now  jumping  narrow  dykes,  now  wad- 
ing through  a  broader  one,  stumbling  over  the  rough 
ground,  his  sea-boots  making  a  dull  thud  as  he  got 
upon  the  sward  beside  the  wall.  He  brought  back 
with  him  three  birds. 

As  they  started  back  he  asked  her  if  she  were  cold, 
and  suggested  that  she  should  put  his  coat  over  her 
ulster.  She  said  that  the  walk  would  warm  her,  and 
started  off  ahead  of  him  at  a  good  pace.  They 
hardly  spoke  at  all  till  they  reached  the  cottage. 

"I  will  leave  the  birds  at  the  door,"  he  said.  "They 
may  appease  Mrs.  Dobson  for  my  interruption  of 
your  evening." 

She  asked  him  to  come  in.  He  said  that  he  must 
take  advantage  of  the  tide. 

They  parted  with  a  certain  constraint  of  which  both 
were  conscious. 


CHAPTER   XI 

NAPIER'S  RELIGION 

NAPIER  rowed  back  to  Borhaven  thinking  of  Anne. 
He  was  still  under  the  spell  of  his  new  thought  that 
she  had  suffered.  The  transition  in  his  ideas  from  the 
loose  supposition  of  an  unhappy  marriage  to  the 
definite  conviction  of  a  tragic  marriage  became  a 
revolution  of  his  attitude  towards  Anne. 

As  he  entered  the  harbour  he  saw  standing  on  the 
quay  the  old  boatman,  Tricker  by  name,  who  looked 
after  his  ship  when  he  was  away,  and  did  little  jobs 
for  him.  The  headlight  was  burning  on  the  Sand 
Wasp. 

As  Napier  approached,  resting  on  his  oars,  the  old 
man  said  to  him,  "I  gave  a  look  to  your  stove  about 
half-an-hour  ago.  But  I  reckon  you'll  find  it  mighty 
cold  in  the  cabin  to-night.  There's  a  rare  frost.  Had 
any  luck  with  the  gun  ?  " 

Napier  told  him,  gave  him  an  order  for  the  morn- 
ing, and,  pulling  out  to  the  ship,  wished  him  good- 
night. The  old  man  tramped  away,  muttering  to 
himself.  Napier's  oars  made  a  duet  with  his  footsteps. 

When  he  had  eaten  his  supper  and  made  up  the 
fire,  he  lighted  a  pipe  and  lay  down  at  full  length  on 
the  lounge. 

128 


NAPIER'S    RELIGION  129 

He  remained  perfectly  quiet,  never  changing  his 
position,  like  a  man  in  a  reverie  rather  than  one  whose 
mind  was  restless  with  the  ferment  of  a  new  idea. 
The  smoke  came  slowly,  at  long  intervals,  from  his 
lips.  When  the  pipe  was  finished  he  laid  it  down  on 
the  floor  at  his  side  without  moving  his  head  or  alter- 
ing the  direction  of  his  gaze.  He  settled  himself  more 
carefully  on  the  broad  of  his  back,  placing  his 
hands,  the  ringers  interlaced,  behind  his  head.  The 
only  sounds  which  entered  the  saloon  were  the  lap- 
ping of  the  water  against  the  ship's  side,  the  faint 
creaking  of  the  timbers,  the  moan  of  the  wind  over- 
head, the  murmur  of  the  sea.  There  was  a  gentle 
movement  of  the  vessel  which  would  have  had  a 
lulling  effect  upon  a  man  who  was  undisturbed  in  his 
thoughts. 

Napier's  principles  stood  firm.  Concessions  on  the 
question  of  marriage  meant  parleying  with  the  enemy. 
He  regarded  this  problem  from  the  universal  point  of 
view  of  humanity.  He  was  a  Stoic,  at  war  with 
Epicureans.  The  modern  tendency  to  enervate  the 
race  met  with  his  disapproval.  The  hostility  of 
nature  seemed  to  him  purposive ;  he  recognized  in  the 
harshness  of  terrestrial  conditions  a  strengthening 
quality,  something  which  braced  the  fibres  of  the  mind 
and  ennobled  the  soul  by  opposing  it.  Mankind 
appeared  to  him  as  merchantmen  crossing  an  ocean 
with  bills  of  lading;  not  as  a  party  of  pleasure 
cruisers.  There  was  a  port  of  destination;  compass 
and  chart  were  necessary;  knowledge  of  the  laws  of 
nature  was  essential ;  seriousness  was  becoming  to  the 


I3o  THE   CAGE 

environment.  He  was  conscious  of  the  grandeur  of 
the  universe. 

It  must  be  explained  how  this  man  had  got  his 
religion. 

Most  people's  knowledge  of  life  may  be  compared 
to  the  holiday  seeker's  knowledge  of  the  sea.  At 
Brighton  one  does  not  know  the  ocean.  From  the 
pavement  of  a  parade,  or  in  the  corner  of  a  glass 
shelter,  or  even  on  the  end  of  a  pier,  where  the  band 
plays  and  palmists  tell  fortunes,  it  is  not  possible  to 
make  acquaintance  with  nature's  unfathomable 
masterpiece.  The  hurricane,  the  tempest,  the  sea- 
snowstorm,  the  typhoon,  the  waterspout;  the  great 
cavernous  rocks,  haunted  by  seabirds,  and  hiding  in 
their  caves  hideous  and  appalling  monsters  which 
shake  men's  faith  in  God;  the  floating  iceberg,  the 
reef,  the  shoal,  the  quicksand ;  the  huge  creatures  who 
swim  in  the  sightless  depths,  the  foul  and  grisly 
Things  which  crawl  in  the  slime ;  the  swift  and  terrible 
changes  in  the  moods  of  this  vast  mass  of  moving 
water,  the  different  sounds  which  it  utters,  the  differ- 
ent colours  with  which  it  decks  itself,  the  sublime 
majesty  of  its  wrath,  the  treacherous  melancholy  of 
its  peace ;  these  things  are  not  to  be  apprehended  from 
the  shore. 

The  ocean  is  not  more  terrible  than  life.  The 
hideous  things  which  prey  upon  each  other  in  the  sea 
have  their  counterparts  on  land.  The  mind  of  man 
has  its  unfathomable  depths. 

Napier  knew  humanity  as  he  knew  the  ocean.  He 
had  visited  many  countries,  his  acquaintance  lay 


NAPIER'S    RELIGION  131 

among  men  whose  business  it  is  to  know  men,  he  had 
seen  with  his  own  eyes.  The  morality  of  treaty-ports 
in  China  and  Japan,  of  the  tropics,  of  places  like 
Naples  and  Port  Said,  was  known  to  him  in  a  degree 
which  the  hurried  traveller  does  not  reach.  He  had 
penetrated  behind  the  scenes  of  depravity;  he  was 
familiar  with  the  workings  of  those  international 
gangs  whose  commerce  is  a  traffic  in  maidenhood; 
he  knew  the  toll  which  iniquity  lays  on  childhood;  he 
had  visited  those  dreadful  hospitals  which  the  world 
shuns,  and  had  seen  the  physical  consequences  of  sin; 
he  had  explored  madhouses  where  alienists  watch  the 
disintegration  of  the  soul;  he  had  talked  with  doctors 
of  all  nations,  lawyers  of  all  nations,  sailors  of  all 
nations,  priests  of  all  nations ;  the  infamy  of  mankind 
was  more  than  a  phrase  to  him,  it  was  a  fact;  iniquity 
ceased  with  him  to  be  a  term  for  men's  actions,  it 
became  a  force;  he  had  seen  the  corruption  of  men's 
bodies,  the  mortification  of  their  souls ;  he  knew  there 
was  a  devil-fish  in  the  sea,  he  believed  there  was  a 
devil-man  in  the  world. 

People  whose  only  acquaintance  with  evil  is  made 
through  the  medium  of  polite  literature  or  the  columns 
of  respectable  newspapers  can  account  for  the  pre- 
sence of  this  power  from  the  action  of  evolution ;  they 
find  it  unnecessary  to  believe  in  a  devil.  An  excuse- 
seeking  theology,  assuming  the  role  of  God's  Apolo- 
gist, has  made  the  idea  of  hell  repellent  to  decent  and 
respectable  persons  who  live  on  the  surface.  The 
general  attitude  of  civilized  society  towards  sin  is  one 

of  tolerating  disapproval.    The  phrase  Eternal  Hope, 
K  a 


i32  THE   CAGE 

however,  which  consoles  an  English  congregation, 
would  sound  oddly  in  the  chuckling  bordels  of 
debauchery.  Napier  knew  iniquity  as  an  anatomist 
knows  the  human  body.  He  knew  to  what  dread 
abysses  the  mind  of  man  can  descend.  He  accepted 
the  teaching — 

"That  in  a  boundless  universe 
Is  boundless  better,  boundless  worse." 

At  the  base  of  his  mind  was  the  conviction  that 
evolution  has  two  definite  streams  of  tendency,  good 
and  evil.  He  saw  that  the  earth  was  inhabited  by 
beautiful  creatures  innocent  and  peaceful;  and  by 
hideous  creatures  cruel  and  ferocious.  The  parasites, 
the  blood-suckers,  the  ghouls,  and  vampires,  and 
scavengers  of  nature  seemed  to  him  to  have  followed 
a  line  of  their  own  inclination,  ending  in  horrid 
shapes  and  ghastly  appetites,  like  the  octopus.  He 
believed  that  this  tendency  was  eternal.  In  a  bound- 
less universe  he  saw  boundless  evil,  boundless  horror. 
The  duality  of  all  things  lay  for  him  in  those  two 
streams  of  tendency :  the  everlasting  evolution  of 
good,  the  everlasting  evolution  of  iniquity. 

Few  men,  even  among  philosophers,  courageously 
confront  the  hideous  and  repulsive  side  of  nature's 
face.  Napier  had  truly  seen  life  steadily  and  seen  it 
whole.  The  majority  of  men  to  whom  this  praise  is 
given  see  but  the  little  fragment  of  life  called  civiliza- 
tion, and  of  that  only  the  part  which  flatters  their 
imposing  optimism.  Evil,  for  Napier,  was  a  definite 
tendency  working  through  evolution.  It  was  the 
enemy  of  God. 


NAPIER'S    RELIGION  133 

From  what  we  have  said  it  will  be  seen  that  Napier's 
religion  was  born  of  a  knowledge  of  evil.  It  was  not 
the  most  exalting  form  of  religion.  He  had  no  ex- 
perience of  ecstasy.  The  element  of  love  was,  per- 
haps, lacking.  It  might  be  said  that  he  hated  the 
devil  more  than  he  adored  God.  But  he  was  filled 
with  an  immense  reverence  for  the  universe,  he  ac- 
knowledged with  every  beat  of  his  heart  the  necessity 
for  Christianity ;  it  was  because  he  saw,  with  the  same 
intelligence  that  a  sailor  sees  a  cloud  on  the  horizon, 
the  ominous  nature  of  evil  that  his  attitude  was  that 
of  the  fighter  rather  than  that  of  the  devotee. 

He  was  sufficiently  an  historian  to  know  that  the 
progress  of  mankind  had  been  interrupted,  had  not 
been  continuous.  This  is  a  fact  which  evolutionists 
sometimes  forget. 

He  was  sufficiently  a  traveller  to  know  that  among 
all  the  nations  of  the  earth  the  number  really  civilized 
may  be  counted  on  the  fingers  of  one  hand.  This  is 
a  fact  which  politicians  ignore,  or  do  not  know. 

It  can  easily  be  imagined  that  a  man  who  regarded 
civilization  as  a  ship  at  sea,  who  saw  that  it  was  not 
as  something  fixed  and  rooted  in  the  earth,  but  as 
something  fragile  and  vulnerable  exposed  to  crowding 
dangers  and  beset  by  some  deadly  and  sinister  enmity, 
would  be  watchful  and  apprehensive  as  regards  the 
horizon,  careful  and  inexorable  as  regards  his 
instruments. 

At  the  foundation  of  civilization  he  saw  respect  for 
women.  He  hated  with  a  great  vehemence  vice  which 
degrades  women,  flippancy  which  makes  them  jests, 


134  THE   CAGE 

dilettantism  which  makes  them  merely  curious  and 
interesting.  Christianity  seemed  to  him  divine 
because  alone  of  all  religions  it  had  ennobled  women 
and  exalted  their  sphere. 

Therefore  the  advance  of  woman  was  for  him  the 
working  of  the  leaven,  the  growth  of  the  mustard  seed. 
Marriage  was  the  woman's  holy  of  holies,  her  sanc- 
tuary, her  altar.  To  drag  her  thence  and  exhibit  her 
in  the  market-place  was  more  than  profanation,  it  was 
the  first  step  to  race-suicide,  it  was  a  return  to  barbar- 
ism, a  reversion  to  chaos,  on  the  part  of  the  Little 
Flock. 

To  make  marriage  a  state  into  which  men  and 
women  could  enter  and  from  which  they  could  go  out 
at  their  will;  to  strip  it  of  its  sacred  character;  to 
render  it  a  commercial  undertaking;  to  see  in  it 
nothing  but  the  whims  and  caprice  of  the  individual  ; 
this  was  for  him  a  denial  of  the  discipline  of  life,  a 
confession  that  materialism  had  triumphed,  a  rejec- 
tion of  God. 

But  now  his  thoughts  were  disturbed  by  a  particular 
case. 

His  gaze  was  removed  from  humanity;  it  rested 
upon  one  woman.  This  woman  was  in  the  dust  at  his 
feet.  She  had  suffered.  Marriage  had  meant  for  her 
torture  and  pain.  This  pain  had  become  intolerable. 

What  could  that  pain  have  been  to  bow  a  creature 
so  strong  and  resolute  ? 

He  began  to  recast  his  ideas  about  Paton,  to  build 
up  from  the  fragments  of  reminiscence  some  complete 
idea  of  the  man.  Although  few  men  had  greater 


NAPIER'S   RELIGION  135 

control  over  thought  and  could  exercise  a  more  stead- 
fast power  of  direction,  Napier  found  himself  on  this 
occasion  wandering  away  from  the  personality  of 
Paton  to  memories  of  his  childhood's  companion. 
The  formless  apparition  of  Paton  melted  into  insub- 
stantial mist;  the  picture  of  Anne  grew  more  vivid, 
and  distinct,  and  insistent. 

This  little  girl  had  grown  up,  had  married,  had 
suffered. 

A  strange  compassion  for  his  old  playmate  became 
active  in  his  mind. 

There  is  in  the  pity  of  strong  men  something  pro- 
tective and  sheltering;  it  does  not  easily  pass  by  on 
the  other  side;  it  does  not  exhaust  itself  with  sighs. 
Action  becomes  imperative. 

Cruelty  to  a  child  rouses  the  whole  soul  of  such 
men.  To  Napier  Anne  had  become  the  child  of  his 
boyhood. 

He  got  up  suddenly  from  the  lounge  and  went  on 
deck. 

The  wind  was  blowing  freshly,  crying  as  it  went. 
The  sky  was  invisible  darkness.  The  moan  of  the 
sea  was,  as  it  were,  the  background  of  the  cry  of  the 
wind.  In  the  harbour  the  lanterns  on  vessels  lifted 
and  fell;  surrounding  the  harbour  were  the  lights  in 
the  windows  of  houses,  which  were  motionless.  The 
solemn,  measured  sound  of  men  walking  up  the  street 
reached  the  boat,  like  the  march  of  a  multitude.  This 
sound  ceased  as  the  church  clock  struck  the  hour,  and 
came  again  as  the  last  stroke  vibrated  into  silence.  A 
woman's  shrill  laughter  broke  suddenly  from  the 


I36  THE   CAGE 

town,  like  the  rent  of  a  garment.  A  moment  after- 
wards the  discordant  singing  of  some  drunken  sailors 
rose  noisily  into  the  night.  The  public-houses  were 
closing  their  doors. 

The  lights  in  the  houses  began  to  go  out.  Silence 
settled  upon  the  town. 

Napier  stood  with  his  back  leaning  against  the 
mast,  looking  out  to  sea.  The  wind,  rushing  in  from 
the  cold  spaces  of  ocean  to  the  warmer  fields  of  the 
earth,  struck  freshly  on  his  face.  He  tasted  the  salt 
of  the  sea  on  his  lips,  and  in  his  nostrils  received  the 
great  scents  of  the  ocean.  From  the  bar,  dimly  dis- 
cernible like  a  shapeless  stretch  of  shadowed  moon- 
light, rose  the  grinding  roar  of  the  low-keeping 
waves,  an  anger  that  was  eternal,  a  variance  that  was 
irrevocable. 

Bitterness  against  Paton,  compassion  for  Anne, 
filled  the  mind  of  the  man  motionless  against  the 
mast. 

Nearly  an  hour  passed,  and  these  feelings  had 
deepened  their  intensity.  There  was  one  difference. 
The  bitterness  became  the  shadow  of  the  compassion. 

He  began  to  walk  round  the  deck.  His  thoughts 
were  of  Anne.  Her  image  was  clear  to  him ;  her 
presence  was  insistent.  Unconsciously  he  stopped 
and  examined  his  lantern;  his  thoughts  continued 
their  flow.  He  looked  up  at  the  sky ;  he  inspected  his 
ship;  he  listened  to  the  wind.  He  was  conscious  of 
the  same  obsession. 

As  he  turned  to  the  companion,  suddenly  and  un- 
accountably the  words  of  Mrs.  Dobson  came  into  his 


NAPIER'S    RELIGION  137 

mind :  "  Idleness,  you  know,  is  rather  dangerous. 
Why  don't  you  get  some  work  to  do,  marry,  and 
settle  down  ?  It  would  be  good  for  you." 

These  words  assumed  a  disconcerting  significance 
in  his  mind.  They  kept  him  wakeful  in  his  bed. 
When  he  fell  asleep  his  dreams  were  of  Anne;  she 
appeared  to  him  as  a  child  in  a  print  dress,  running 
towards  him  on  the  sands,  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  her 
arms  outstretched,  her  face  expressing  terror;  his 
dream  ended  in  a  fight — not  with  Paton,  but  with  the 
boy  who  had  struck  him  in  the  streets  of  Portobello. 

The  morning  was  wild  and  grey.  He  studied  the 
sky  carefully,  consulted  his  weather-glass  several 
times,  and  appeared  to  be  undecided. 

At  last  his  mind  was  made  up.  He  went  below, 
wrote  a  letter  to  Anne  saying  that  he  was  going  South, 
and  excusing  himself  from  calling  to  say  good-bye. 
He  went  ashore  with  this  letter,  bathed  from  the  sands 
beyond  the  Harbour  Hotel,  made  some  purchases  in 
the  town,  posted  his  letter,  paid  a  few  visits  of  fare- 
well, returned  to  the  quay,  said  good-bye  to  old 
Tricker,  who  was  surprised  at  his  departure  on  such  a 
day,  and  then  went  aboard  the  Sand  Wasp. 

In  a  few  minutes  his  anchor  was  up,  and  the  ship 
was  moving  to  sea. 


CHAPTER   XII 

A  DOOR  IS  CLOSED 

THE  spring  came,  bringing  with  it,  after  a  wild 
winter,  those  kindly  opportunities  which  are  the  joy 
of  a  gardener.  Anne  was  busy  from  morning  till 
night.  She  was  not  happy. 

Her  industry  occupied  her  time  but  not  her 
thoughts.  The  appearance  of  bulbs  above  the  soil 
pleased  her  eyes,  but  did  not  soothe  the  pain  in  her 
heart.  One  might  have  said,  seeing  her  so  busy  in 
this  little  garden,  which  was  full  of  sunshine  and 
birds'  singing  and  the  scents  of  the  earth,  that  her 
satisfaction  was  complete,  that  no  distraction  could 
lift  the  latch  of  the  gate,  that  in  such  a  sanctuary  no 
unrest  could  make  its  dwelling. 

It  did  not  appear  in  her  face  that  she  was  unhappy. 
The  grey  eyes  with  their  dark  lashes  remained  tender 
and  gentle;  no  sad  hardening  overshadowed  the 
delicacy  of  her  golden  skin;  the  young  mouth  was 
entirely  without  bitterness. 

A  more  emotional  nature,  perhaps,  would  have 
shown  the  mind's  unrest  in  its  manner.  Anne  was 
habitually  quiet  and  subdued;  she  soared  to  no 
heights,  descended  to  no  depths.  Mrs.  Dobson  ob- 
served nothing. 


A    DOOR    IS   CLOSED  139 

Her  sorrow,  indeed,  was  a  hidden  life.  As  the 
purest  saints  are  conscious  of  evil  suggestions  moving 
in  their  minds,  so  Anne  was  conscious  of  her  pain. 
It  was  not  herself,  but  could  not  have  been  without 
her.  It  accompanied  her  thoughts  as  her  shadow 
accompanied  her  movements.  She  did  not  acknow- 
ledge it  to  herself.  She  did  not  make  any  effort  to 
get  rid  of  it.  She  knew  that  it  was  there  as  a  traveller 
whose  mind  is  concentrated  upon  the  goal  of  his 
journey  may  know  that  rain  is  falling  and  the  wind 
blowing.  She  accepted  it  as  something  that  came 
from  the  outside.  Fatalism  is  never  of  the  brain ;  it 
is  of  the  heart.  Anne  met  life  with  her  brain;  she 
was  conscious  of  destiny  in  her  heart. 

This  sorrow  might  be  roughly  expressed  in  a  single 
sentence.  She  missed  Napier.  It  would  be  danger- 
ous, perhaps  untrue,  to  carry  it  further. 

People  who  questioned  her  about  Hugh  detected 
no  change  in  her  manner  when  she  replied.  In  the 
streets  of  Borhaven  she  often  met  poor  people  who 
asked  when  he  was  coming  back.  She  smiled  when 
she  told  them  that  she  did  not  know.  She  was  not 
aware  that  Miss  Potter  searched  her  face  when  that 
good  lady  inquired  for  the  explanation  of  Napier's 
sudden  departure.  Her  only  thought  was  that  this 
curiosity  was  a  little  impertinent.  Old  Mrs.  M'Gavin, 
the  dour  mother  of  the  doctor,  spoke  about  Hugh 
as  a  noble  boy,  a  great  son  for  any  mother  to  be  proud 
of;  she  said  that  his  absence  was  a  loss  to  all.  Anne 
felt  pleased  that  people  should  praise  him. 

It  was  the  activity  of  her  life  which  kept  her  from 


i4o  THE   CAGE 

the  dangers  of  introspection.  She  had  long  resumed 
her  church-going,  interrupted  only  for  a  few  Sundays 
by  the  interference  of  Mr.  Aldrich ;  she  was  conscienti- 
ous in  the  work  of  district  visiting ;  she  assisted  in  the 
considerable  secretarial  work  of  two  or  three  important 
charities;  in  addition  to  these  things,  there  was  the 
care  of  her  grandmother,  the  work  of  the  house,  the 
work  of  the  garden,  the  engagements  of  hospitality, 
and  her  reading. 

The  spring  deepened  to  summer;  summer  moved 
towards  autumn;  the  separation  from  Hugh  Napier 
was  as  complete  as  the  separation  from  Richard 
Paton. 

Her  mind  was  enlarging.  She  discussed  interesting 
subjects  with  Ramsay  M' Gavin.  He  lent  her  books 
which  opened  a  new  world  to  her.  Among  these 
books  was  Letourneau's  Evolution  of  Marriage. 

One  afternoon  Miss  Potter  came  to  Creek  Cottage 
on  a  matter  of  parish  business.  Anne  was  in  the 
garden  with  gauntlet  gloves  on  her  hands,  a  bunch  of 
bass  fastened  to  a  button  of  her  jacket  and  hanging 
down  in  front  of  her.  They  went  into  the  drawing- 
room,  where  Mrs.  Dobson  was  lying  on  the  sofa  read- 
ing a  novel  by  Anatole  France.  While  Miss  Potter 
was  speaking,  her  sharp  eyes  caught  sight  of  the  word 
"Marriage"  on  M'Gavin's  book.  She  looked  more 
closely,  and  saw  that  this  ominous  word  was  pre- 
ceded by  the  hateful  term  Evolution.  She  reached 
forward  and  snatched  the  wicked  thing  from  the  table. 

"You  surely  don't  read  books  like  this?"  she  de- 
manded. 


A   DOOR    IS   CLOSED  141 

Mrs.  Dobson  looked  across  the  room  from  her  sofa. 
"What  book  is  that?" 

Anne  answered  her  grandmother,  and  turning 
to  Miss  Potter,  said  that  she  was  reading  the  work 
with  interest.  Miss  Potter,  glancing  through  the 
pages  with  impatience,  as  if  she  would  have 
liked  to  box  their  ears,  exclaimed  that  books  of 
the  kind  did  enormous  harm.  She  replaced  it 
with  displeasure,  looked  at  Mrs.  Dobson  and  said, 
"I  hope  you  don't  approve  of  books  that  criticize 
marriage." 

"It  doesn't  criticize  marriage,"  Anne  said  quietly; 
"it  explains  it." 

"Explanations  are  dangerous  things,"  retorted  Miss 
Potter.  "People  think  now-a-days  that  they  can  ex- 
plain everything.  And  they  can't  even  explain  them- 
selves, the  ridiculous  things  !  " 

Conversation  became  gradually  a  controversy.  The 
discussion  was  triangular.  Miss  Potter  stood  for  un- 
questioning obedience;  Anne,  in  her  quiet  but  resolute 
manner,  for  investigation ;  Mrs.  Dobson  for  impartial 
banter  of  both  points  of  view. 

Miss  Potter  spoke  about  the  unanimity  of  the  priest- 
hood on  this  question.  Mrs.  Dobson  said,  "On  all 
other  questions  except  marriage  they  are  divorced." 
Anne  replied  to  Miss  Potter  that  ecclesiastical  opinion 
ought  to  have  no  weight  on  a  matter  of  sociology. 
"In  Scotland,"  she  said,  "we  do  not  regard  the 
ministers  of  religion  as  Church  people  regard  the 
clergy  in  England.  I  can  quite  understand  your  posi- 
tion, however.  You  are  an  Anglican,  and  see  it  from 


142  THE   CAGE 

the  Anglican  standpoint.  You  must  remember  that  I 
am  a  Scot." 

"We  are  all  members  of  the  Catholic  Church,"  an- 
swered Miss  Potter.  "You  are  a  Catholic.  You 
ought  to  take  the  Catholic  standpoint." 

The  controversy  ended  amicably. 

Miss  Potter,  however,  did  not  forget  this  dispute. 
Anne's  position  seemed  to  her  perilous.  She  men- 
tioned the  matter  one  day  to  Mr.  Aldrich.  She  spoke 
about  Anne's  extraordinary  statement  that  she  was 
not  an  Anglican.  "A  pretty  sort  of  assertion  for  a 
Church  worker  I  "  she  exclaimed. 

"And  a  communicant,"  said  Mr.  Aldrich,  who  had 
listened  attentively. 

It  happened  at  this  time  that  Canon  Case  was  away. 
The  senior  curate  was  in  charge.  Perhaps  if  Canon 
Case  had  been  at  home  he  might  have  consulted  him, 
and  perhaps  the  gentle  and  amiable  vicar  would  have 
averted  the  disaster.  As  it  was,  Mr.  Aldrich  took  the 
matter  into  his  own  hands. 

On  the  following  day  there  was  a  meeting  of  the 
District  Visitors'  Society.  It  was  held  a.t  the  vicarage, 
which  was  the  clergy  house.  Mr.  Alon'oh  asked  Anne 
to  remain  behind.  When  the  door  haa  closed  on  the 
last  of  the  departing  district  visitors,  he  looked  up 
from  his  papers  on  the  table  and  said  to  Anne,  who 
was  standing  by  the  mantelpiece — 

"Mrs.  Paton,  have  you  been  baptized?" 

He  rose  as  he  spoke,  and  came  towards  her. 

There  was  something  hostile  in  his  expression  and 
in  the  tone  of  his  voice.  He  was  like  a  barrister  rising 


A   DOOR   IS   CLOSED  143 

to  cross-examine  a  witness.  He  assumed  an  air  of 
authority.  The  dark  eyes  were  hard  with  antagon- 
ism, the  gaunt  face  was  pitiless,  like  stone;  the 
severity  of  his  mouth  was  a  threat  to  guilt,  an  affront 
to  innocence.  Anne  resented  his  hostility;  but  she 
flinched  under  his  earnestness. 

"No,"  she  answered,  moving  unconsciously  a  pace 
away  from  him. 

"Which  Church  did  you  belong  to  in  Scotland?" 

"To  neither." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"My  father  had  no  religion.** 

"You  have  never  received  religious  instruction?'* 

"No,  I  suppose  not." 

"Then  you  do  not  know  that  Holy  Baptism  is  essen- 
tial to  Church  membership  ?  " 

"No." 

"The  Eucharist  is  only  for  members  of  the  Church." 

"You  mean  that  I  am  not  a  member?  " 

"Precisely." 

"And  that  I  have  no  right  to  come  to  Communion  ?" 

"It  is  my  duty  to  forbid  you  to  come." 

"I  am  excommunicated?" 

"No;  you  are  not  a  member  of  the  Catholic 
Church." 

"I  think  I  understand  what  you  mean.  You  dis- 
miss me ;  is  that  it  ?  " 

"God  forbid." 

"  Then  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

He  came  nearer  to  her.  His  penetrating  gaze  was 
fixed  upon  her  eyes.  He  was  reading  her  soul. 


144  THE   CAGE 

"I  am  calling  your  attention  to  the  laws  of  Christ. 
You  must  submit  yourself  for  the  rite  of  Holy  Bap- 
tism before  you  can  come  to  the  Eucharist." 

Anne  was  struck  dumb. 

"If  your  religious  life,"  he  said,  speaking  slowly, 
"  has  been  a  real  and  intimate  necessity ;  if  it  has  been 
something  more  than  a  convention  and  a  formalism ; 
if  you  are  conscious  in  your  heart  and  mind  and  soul 
that  Christ  is  essential  to  your  salvation;  if  you 
earnestly  desire  to  live  as  God  would  have  you  live 
that  one  day  you  may  stand  in  His  presence;  if  this 
is  so,  you  will  come  to  the  Church  for  Holy  Baptism." 

The  effect  of  this  invitation  was  to  antagonize  Anne, 
and  to  throw  her  back  on  the  position  of  her  father. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  Mr.  Aldrich  deeply  and 
sincerely  doubted  the  reality  ef  Anne's  spiritual  life. 
Perhaps  he  was  right.  But  the  degrees  of  spirituality 
are  infinite.  Between  the  two  poles  of  the  religious 
life,  the  saint  and  the  moral  man,  swings  a  world  of 
multiform  goodness.  Isaiah  is  not  farther  from 
Arnold  of  Rugby  than  Thomas  a  Kempis  or  Francis 
of  Assisi  from  John  Howard,  Wesley,  William 
Booth  and  Andrew  Carnegie.  Nay,  in  one  man  there 
is  infinity.  Saul  of  Tarsus  was  a  righteous  man,  but 
his  distance  from  Paul  the  Apostle  is  immeasurable. 
And  among  the  company  of  God's  struggling  children 
we  must  make  room,  perhaps,  for  such  as  Peter 
Abelard. 

Anne  might  be  far  from  the  standpoint  of  the  priest, 
and  yet  on  the  same  road.  All  vehicles  do  not  move 
at  the  same  pace;  the  brain  is  the  vehicle  of  the  soul. 


A   DOOR    IS   CLOSED  145 

The  priest,  too,  forgot  the  Unexpected  foretold  of 
the  Judgment  Day.  However  difficult  for  the  orthodox 
to  understand,  it  is  written  that  the  blessing  will  go  to 
those  who  anticipate  the  curse,  and  the  curse  to  those 
who  anticipate  the  blessing.  How  that  staggers  the 
brain!  "Security,"  says  Thomas  Adams,  "is  the 
very  suburbs  of  hell." 

One  thing  else  he  forgot — those  terrible  words  which 
apparently  make  no  allowance  for  the  indiscretion  of 
the  proselytizer :  "  Whosoever  shall  offend  one  of 
these  little  ones  that  believe  in  Me,  it  is  better  for  him 
that  a  millstone  were  hanged  about  his  neck,  and  he 
were  cast  into  the  sea." 

One  of  the  great  dangers  of  an  ecclesiasticism  which 
rests  more  upon  tradition  than  it  yields  itself  to  the 
spirit  of  Christ,  lies  in  its  historic  blindness  to  the 
terrible  possibility  that  offence  may  come  even  from 
the  sanctified.  Do  these  good  people  never  start  with 
fear  at  the  thought  that  perhaps  they  misrepresent 
the  Son  of  God  ?  What  a  frightful  thing,  to  obtrude 
ourselves  between  the  World,  and  the  Light  of  the 
World;  to  be  ourselves  the  shadow  of  those  that 
sit  in  darkness  and  who  but  for  us  would  see  the 
Light  1 

It  is  not  always  observed  that  the  children  thrust 
from  Christ's  side  by  His  disciples  interrupted  an 
important  discussion.  It  was  this  interruption  of  a 
serious  matter  which  made  the  disciples  indignant. 
When,  at  the  Master's  command,  however,  the  chil- 
dren were  admitted,  He  blessed  them.  Mr.  Aldrich 
would  have  banged  the  door. 

L 


146  THE   CAGE 

Anne  fixed  her  gaze  upon  the  eyes  of  the  priest.  ^1 
shall  never  come,"  she  said  quietly. 

"You  deny  Christ?" 

"I  reject  the  Church." 

She  moved  towards  the  door.  "One  word,"  he 
said,  and  she  turned  and  looked  at  him.  "  Don't  trifle 
with  your  soul,  Mrs.  Paton  I  " 

"How  do  I  trifle  with  it?" 

He  stood  upright  with  his  head  stooping  forward 
like  a  hawk.  The  brightness  of  his  eyes  heightened 
the  pallor  of  his  face.  As  he  spoke  he  lifted  his  right 
hand,  and  with  the  forefinger  pointed  towards  her, 
began  to  beat  the  air.  His  voice  was  low,  passionate, 
inflexible.  He  said — 

"In  this  wicked  world,  this  world  of  hates  and 
jealousies  and  sensualities  innumerable,  there  is  one 
force  fighting  evil,  one  force  standing  for  God,  one 
force  making  for  holiness,  the  Church  founded  by  the 
Son  of  God.  On  the  authority  of  the  Son  of  God  I 
tell  you  that  either  you  must  be  on  the  side  of  His 
Church  or  against  it.  There  is  no  middle  course.  If 
you  reject  the  Church,  you  reject  God.  Why  do  you 
reject  your  Creator  ?  Is  it  out  of  a  little  pride,  a  little 
self-will  ?  Weigh  your  present  feelings  against  Eter- 
nity. If  it  does  not  profit  a  man  to  gain  the  whole 
world  and  lose  his  soul,  how  can  it  profit  you  to  safe- 
guard your  pride  at  the  cost  of  your  immortality? 
What  reason  can  you  give  me,  what  reason  can  you 
give  yourself,  for  refusing  to  submit  to  the  ordinance 
of  Christ  Himself?  Don't  go  till  you  have  answered 
that  question." 


A   DOOR   IS   CLOSED  147 

If  was  impossible  for  her,  even  in  the  height  of  her 
resentment,  not  to  feel  the  spell  of  the  priest's  sin- 
cerity. This  vigilant  and  faithful  son  of  the  Church 
was  in  earnest.  His  zeal  was  real.  His  passion  was 
pure.  His  devotion  was  absolute. 

"I  find  that  I  need  give  myself  no  reason,"  she 
answered,  gently  but  firmly.  "My  whole  nature 
acquits  me  of  your  charge." 

"Is  that  nature  regenerate?  " 

"It  is  as  God  made  it." 

"Did  He  make  it  self-righteous?" 

"No;   self-respecting." 

"Self-respect  is  sometimes  another  word  for  self- 
satisfaction." 

"  I  will  bear  the  consequences." 

"  Here.    But  hereafter  ?  " 

"I  am  not  afraid." 

"  That  is  your  danger.  You  do  not  realize  that  Holy 
Baptism  is  the  ordinance  of  God  Himself?" 

"I  cannot  feel  that  it  is  necessary." 

"But  do  you  realize  that  God  ordained  it?" 

"No." 

"It  is  the  immemorial  custom  of  the  Church,  it  is 
enjoined  in  holy  scripture." 

"I  do  not  feel  that  eternity  hangs  upon  it." 

His  eyes  flashed.  "Ah,  but  what  does  it  do?  It 
tests  your  character;  it  searches  your  soul!  This 
rejection  shows  me  your  soul.  You  are  unregenerate. 
You  have  not  made  the  surrender.  You  have  not  been 
born  again.  Listen  to  me  :  by  this  rejection  of  Holy 
Baptism  you  deny  the  whole  scheme  of  redemption. 

L2 


i48  THE   CAGE 

What  does  your  rejection  mean  ?  It  means  that  you 
can  do  without  Christ.  It  means  that  you  are  self- 
sufficient.  It  means  that  you  are  superior  to  God. 
I  warn  you.  Unless  you  bow  your  will,  unless  you 
humble  your  reason,  unless  you  meekly  and  obediently 
accept  the  mercy  and  redemption  of  the  Most  High, 
you  cannot  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  Question 
your  soul ;  it  will  justify  me.  Look  back  on  your  past 
life  since  you  came  here ;  you  have  visited  the  poor,  you 
have  befriended  the  helpless,  you  have  comforted  the 
sorrowful — in  whose  name  ?  your  own,  or  in  Christ's  ? 
Be  very  honest  with  yourself.  If  in  your  own  name, 
you  have  practised  philanthropy.  And  if  in  Christ's 
Name,  why  do  you  reject  Him  now?  Believe  me, 
you  are  living  in  a  false  world.  You  do  not  know  that 
the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  union  with  the  will  of  God. 
Self-will  is  the  wilderness,  the  abyss,  the  hell  of  human 
beings.  It  is  by  yielding  our  will,  bowing  our  pride, 
uprooting  our  vanity,  and  destroying  every  poisonous 
vestige  of  self,  that  we  enter  the  kingdom.  Have  you 
bowed  your  pride  and  uprooted  your  vanity?  Are 
you  conscious  of  any  central  touch  between  you  and 
your  God  ?  Is  it  true  that  you  have  surrendered  your 
self,  that  your  life  is  consecrated  to  God,  that  you  have 
no  will  but  His  ?  Can  you  tell  me  that  there  has  been 
a  moment  in  your  life  when  you  threw  yourself  into 
the  arms  of  the  Infinite  and  became  conscious  of  a 
new  birth,  a  new  nature,  a  new  life  ?  Religion,  Mrs. 
Paton,  has  no  compromises.  It  is  either  a  reality, 
or  it  is  a  lie.  With  a  lie  we  can  deceive  men,  we  can 
deceive  ourselves;  but  not  God." 


A   DOOR    IS   CLOSED  149 

She  turned  away  her  gaze,  and  made  a  motion  as 
though  she  would  go.  "I  could  not  discuss  these 
things  with  you,  Mr.  Aldrich,  even  if  I  wished  to  do 
so;  we  use  a  different  vocabulary.  I  have,  what  a 
great  many  other  people  have,  a  distaste  for  the  dis- 
cussion of  my  inner  life.  I  am  sorry,  but  I  cannot 
satisfy  your  curiosity — that  is  wrong,  I  should  not 
have  said  that;  I  cannot  appease  your  anxiety  for 
my  welfare,  which  I  am  quite  sure  is  sincere.  I 
thank  you  for  your  interest.  I  put  an  end  to  the 
discussion." 

As  she  reached  the  door  he  came  forward.  "One 
thing  before  you  go,"  he  said,  close  at  her  side.  "You 
cannot  come  to  the  altar  till  you  have  passed  the 
font;  but  do  not  forsake  the  Church.  Come  to  public 
worship;  continue  your  social  work;  and  pray  for 
guidance.  The  day  may  come  when  you  will  wish  to 
bow  your  will." 

"I  will  think,"  she  said,  and  left  him. 

She  was  walkirg  through  the  High  Street,  going 
over  in  her  mind  this  strange  interview  with  the 
priest,  when  she  came  face  to  face  with  Major  Lauden, 
whose  face  broke  into  delighted  smiles  at  sight  of  her. 
The  red-faced  old  man,  with  Trooper  at  his  heels, 
was  returning  dus-ty  and  hot  from  his  afternoon's 
walk. 

"I  say,  I've  got  news  for  you,"  he  exclaimed. 
"I've  just  seen  Henry  Pleasant.  But  perhaps  you 
have  heard  it." 

She  shook  her  head.    "  What  is  it  ?  " 

"He's  back  1" 


150  THE   CAGE 

"Who  is  back?" 

"As  if  you  don't  know!"  He  laughed.  "Why, 
ma'am,  the  romantic  skipper  of  the  Sand  Wasp." 

Anne  felt  her  face  light  up.  Her  heart,  which  had 
been  numb  and  cold,  began  to  beat  quickly.  The 
world  altered  for  her. 

"I'm  going  down  to  see  him  now,"  continued  the 
cheerful  major.  "I'll  get  him  to  come  and  dine  with 
me.  Any  message?  I'll  tell  him  that  I've  seen  you, 
and  that  you're  looking — charming  !  " 

"Tell  him  that  I'm  glad  he,  is  back." 


CHAPTER   XIII 

ANOTHER   IS   OPENED 

WHEN  Anne  arrived  at  the  cottage  and  announced 
to  Mrs.  Dobson  that  Napier  had  returned,  the  old 
lady's  eyes  blinked,  and  she  said  abruptly,  "Why?" 

This  question  was  an  accusation,  a  warning,  and  a 
disclosure.  In  certain  situations  a  single  word  says 
everything.  To  a  dying  man  the  "Whither?"  of 
Death  is  the  whole  universe  articulate. 

The  two  women  looked  at  each  other. 

"He  had  better  go  away  again,"  said  tHe  grand- 
mother; "as  soon  as  possible." 

On  the  following  morning  the  post  brought  Anne 
a  letter  from  her  husband.  The  familiar  writing  on 
the  envelope,  unfamiliar  now  for  over  two  years, 
revived  the  terrible  past  and  made  the  dangerous 
present  a  crisis.  For  a  few  moments  she  regarded  her 
own  name  on  the  envelope.  That  name  was  Paton. 

The  letter  did  not  accuse  her.  It  made  no  refer- 
ence to  the  past,  and  uttered  neither  complaint  not 
apology.  Richard  Paton  wrote  to  say  that  he  had 
returned  from  America,  that  he  wanted  to  entertain 
a  few  interesting  people  in  the  following  week,  and 
that,  as  Mrs.  Ainslie  was  in  Scotland,  he  would  be 


152  THE   CAGE 

glad  if  she  could  come  up  to  London.  The  letter 
concluded  with  a  postscript,  "I  very  much  want  to 
have  a  talk." 

Anne  had  said  nothing  to  Mrs.  Dobson  about  her 
scene  with  the  clergyman,  but  she  took  this  letter  to 
the  old  lady's  bedroom.  "What  do  you  advise  me  to 
do  ?  "  she  asked,  when  the  grandmother,  in  bed  with 
an  invalid's  breakfast-table  before  her,  had  read  the 
letter. 

"Your  duty,"  said  Mrs.  Dobson. 

Anne  sat  down  by  the  bedside,  and  the  old  lady 
resumed  her  breakfast. 

"I  can't  go  back  to  that  life,"  Anne  said,  with  reso- 
lution and  composure.  "If  I  obey  this  order,  I 
acknowledge  his  authority.  I  must  deny  it." 

"The  law  enables  a  man  to  divorce  the  wife  who 
refuses  to  live  with  him." 

Anne  thought.  "That  means  freedom  for  the 
woman,"  she  said,  conscious  of  a  hope. 

"Would  you  like  to  go  through  the  divorce 
court  ?  " 

"I  should  be  the  accuser." 

"The  world  would  be  your  detractor." 

Anne  looked  towards  the  open  window.  She  could 
see  the  woods  on  the  further  shore  sloping  up  to  the 
blue  sky,  which  had  little  white  clouds  floating  be- 
tween its  luminous  turquoise  and  the  earth's  green. 
The  air  was  cool  and  sweet.  The  scents  of  the  creepers 
on  the  trellis,  whose  flowers  swayed  gently  round  the 
square  of  the  window,  entered  the  little  white  room 
like  the  breathing  of  a  child.  In  the  trees  birds  were 


ANOTHER    IS   OPENED  153 

keeping  up  a  perpetual  chirping,  which  gave  cheerful- 
ness to  nature's  quiet  and  vitality  to  her  peace.  It 
was  one  of  those  summer  mornings  when  human 
nature  responds  with  gladness  to  the  smile  of  its 
mother. 

She  said,  "I  cannot  go  back." 

Mrs.  Dobson  lifted  her  cup  of  hot  milk  and  drank 
slowly. 

"Have  you  forgotten,"  Anne  asked,  "the  horror  of 
that  life  ?  Think  what  we  went  through  !  You  used 
to  say  it  was  unendurable.  You  told  me  that  I  had 
a  right  to  rebel.  It  was  not  the  insults  I  minded, 
not  the  humiliation  I  resented;  it  was  the  degradation. 
It  was  not  my  honour  that  suffered;  it  was  my  soul. 
Duty,  surely,  ceases  to  be  duty  when  it  debases  self- 
respect.  That  life  defiled  me.  You  can't  really  mean 
that  I  should  go  back.  To  what? — to  pollution,  to 
bitter  shame,  to  infamy  !  No.  You  have  forgotten 
Richard.  It  is  too  long  since  you  saw  him.  Try 
to  remember  him.  I  am  sure  you  will  not  tell  me  to 
go  back." 

"Very  well,  then ;  do  not  go  back." 

Anne  put  a  hand  on  her  grandmother's  arm.  "It 
wouldn't  be  possible,  would  it?" 

"But  send  Hugh  away." 

Anne  turned  pale.     "Why  do  you  say  that?'1 

"Because  I  am  an  old  woman." 

"It  hurts  me." 

"My  dear,  listen  to  me.  If  Hugh  stays  in  Bor- 
haven,  he  will  come  here  to  see  you  every  day.  You 
will  go  out  for  walks  together.  People  will  talk.  To 


154  THE   CAGE 

be  talked  about  is  the  worst  thing  that  can  happen 
to  a  woman.  It  makes  her  rebellious.  Besides,  talk 
of  that  kind  has  wings,  and  a  homing  instinct.  It 
flies  to  the  dangerous  quarter.  That  is  where  it  is 
aimed.  The  consequences  might  be  your  social  ruin. 
You  do  not  wish  to  live  with  your  husband;  that  is 
your  position;  suppose  he  wants  to  get  rid  of  you? 
This  letter  that  he  has  written  may  be  a  trap.  I  don't 
say  it  is ;  but  it  may  be.  He  says  he  wants  very  much 
to  have  a  talk  with  you.  Why?  Remember  he  has 
no  moral  sense ;  tales  may  have  reached  him  already ; 
he  may  have  a  disgraceful  proposal  to  make  to  you. 
Whatever  is  to  happen,  your  position  must  be  un- 
compromised.  Send  danger  away,  give  risk  notice 
to  quit." 

Anne  could  not  answer.  Mrs.  Dobson  did  not  look 
at  her;  she  was  buttering  a  finger  of  toast. 

"The  working-classes,"  said  the  old  lady,  "are  not 
only  our  masters;  in  some  things  they  are  our  models. 
In  that  rank  of  life  a  married  woman  does  not  walk 
out  with  other  men.  Never  I  Borhaven  would  be  a 
maelstrom  of  scandal  if  the  butcher  walked  out  with 
the  grocer's  wife,  or  if  the  plumber's  wife  walked  out 
with  the  ironmonger.  They  are  very  wise,  those 
people.  It  is  all  over  with  a  country  that  grows 
superior  to  public  opinion.  Public  opinion  is  the 
conscience  of  a  nation.  The  working-class  is  a  con- 
science. Compare  the  working-class  to  the  crew  of 
people  your  husband  likes  to  surround  himself  with  ! 
No;  it  is  not  good  for  a  married  woman  to  have  an 
alter  ego  of  the  sex  that  complements  her  own.  What 


ANOTHER    IS   OPENED  ri55 

working-people  know  by  a  rude  instinct  you  can 
realize  through  your  intellect  and  your  grandmother. 
Don't  let  us  say  any  more  about  the  matter.  Take 
away  my  tray,  like  a  good  girl,  and  give  me  my 
book." 

Anne  went  down-stairs  and  entered  the  drawing- 
room  with  Paton's  letter  in  her  hand.  She  sat  down 
at  her  bureau  between  the  two  windows.  For  some 
moments  she  remained  with  her  hands  in  her  lap,  her 
gaze  turned  to  the  garden.  She  was  not  thinking 
what  she  should  write. 

She  rose  presently  and  went  into  the  hall.  She 
picked  up  her  gloves,  scissors,  and  basket  from  the 
table,  and  passed  into  the  garden.  She  walked  slowly 
on  the  grass,  beside  the  borders,  pausing  every  now 
and  then  to  cut  a  flower  or  tie  up  a  plant  with  bass. 
It  was  quite  clear  that  her  thoughts  were  absent  from 
her  work. 

Before  her  basket  was  filled  she  returned  to  the 
house  and  entered  the  drawing-room.  She  put  the 
basket  on  the  floor  at  her  feet,  drew  off  her  gloves,  and 
sat  down  at  the  bureau.  She  did  not  wait  to  put  the 
flowers  in  water. 

She  wrote  to  Richard  Paton.  Her  letter  was  a 
declaration  of  independence.  She  announced  her 
determination  to  be  free,  refused  to  obey  his  sum- 
mons, and  requested  that  their  communication  might 
cease. 

She  had  not  been  thinking  of  him  when  she  walked 
in  the  garden ;  perhaps  it  was  not  distaste  for  her 
husband  that  dictated  the  vigour  of  this  letter. 


i56  THE   CAGE 

Mrs.  Dobson,  it  will  be  remembered,  had  made 
her  conscious  of  a  new  hope. 

If  Paton  divorced  her,  on  the  grounds  of  this 
refusal  to  obey  his  commands,  she  would  be  free. 

She  was  addressing  the  envelope,  when  she  heard 
the  gate  swing,  followed  by  the  sound  of  approaching 
footsteps  on  the  path.  Her  breathing  became  faster, 
and  a  flush  overspread  her  face.  She  finished  her 
writing. 

Napier  came  into  view.  She  rose  and  went  to  the 
window.  "Welcome,"  she  said  quietly,  and  put  out 
her  hand. 

His  face  lighted  at  sight  of  her.  He  looked  older, 
graver,  sadder.  There  was  a  new  tenderness  in  his 
eyes.  The  strength  of  his  countenance  was  softened 
by  a  gentleness  acquired  since  she  had  last  seen  him. 

She  passed  through  the  window,  and  they  crossed 
the  lawn  to  a  seat  under  one  of  the  trees.  As  they 
went  they  talked  of  his  return;  he  told  her  where  he 
had  been,  and  inquired  after  Mrs.  Dobson. 

The  society  of  this  man  was  delightful  to  her.  To 
look  at  his  face,  to  hear  his  voice,  to  watch  him  and 
recognize  little  habits  of  manner  wonderfully  familiar, 
to  know  that  his  long  absence  was  ended,  to  think 
that  he  was  really  back  again,  to  feel  the  spirit  of  his 
presence  and  the  soul  of  his  companionship  close  to 
her,  this  was  for  Anne  a  forgetfulness  of  sorrow,  a 
sufficient  satisfaction  for  the  perplexities  of  her  life. 

From  the  seat  under  the  tree,  which  stood  on  a 
mound  raising  it  above  the  level  of  the  lawn,  they 
looked  across  the  beautiful  small  garden  through  a 


ANOTHER    IS   OPENED 

frame  of  green  branches  and  green  leaves  to  the 
broad  river,  shining  and  sparkling  in  the  sun,  full 
from  shore  to  shore.  The  house  was  behind  them  and 
on  one  side,  hidden  by  the  tree.  Nothing  was  moving 
but  the  river.  The  only  sounds  came  from  invisible 
birds  and  bees  moving  slowly  from  flower  to  flower. 
It  was  as  if  they  were  alone  in  the  world. 

She  remembered  that  it  was  from  this  self-same 
seat  she  had  seen  Hugh  when  he  first  came  to  the 
cottage. 

"I  have  been  haunted  by  remorse  ever  since  I  left 
you,"  he  said,  "and  tortured  by  curiosity." 

"Tell  me  why." 

"Remorse,  because  I  seemed  to  show  you  no 
sympathy.  I  have  recalled  a  hundred  times  all  we 
said  to  each  other,  when  we  talked  about  marriage. 
I  can  remember  not  a  single  word  on  my  part  which 
showed  the  smallest  sympathy  with  your  own  experi- 
ence, which  I  have  grown  to  feel  was  a  hard  one. 
You  can't  think  how  this  has  reproached  me.  Our 
old  friendship  has  risen  up  against  me.  We  used 
to  share  our  troubles  in  those  days.  We  didn't  dog- 
matize; we  sympathized.  It  was  better.  To  lay 
down  the  law  to  you  on  an  abstract  question  was 
absurd.  You  don't  know  how  I  have  blamed  my- 
self. That  is  one  of  the  reasons  I  have  come  back. 
To  tell  you  I  am  sorry." 

They  did  not  look  at  each  other,  but  sat  side  by  side 
with  their  eyes  towards  the  river. 

"I  have  never  blamed  you,"  she  said.  "I  didn't 
agree  with  you;  1  haven't  come  round  to  your  point 


158  THE   CAGE 

of  view;  but  I  never  felt  that  you  did  not  sympathize 
with  me,  or  rather  that  you  wouldn't  sympathize  with 
me  if  you  knew." 

"That  is  the  other  reason  of  my  return.  Righteous 
curiosity,  I  promise  you.  Anne,  if  I  may,  I  want  to 
know.  May  I  ?  If  I  presume  too  much,  tell  me. 
You  mustn't  lose  your  old  trick  of  putting  me  right." 

"I  should  like  to  tell  you."  She  smiled,  as  she 
added,  "Perhaps  it  will  lessen  your  enthusiasm  for 
Miss  Potter.  My  case,  I  suppose,  is  only  one  of  a 
great  many.  The  marriage  question  is  certainly 
more  difficult  than  Miss  Potter  imagines.** 

It  was  a  relief  to  his  anxiety  that  she  could  speak 
with  a  smile.  Perhaps  after  all  she  had  not  suffered 
as  his  imagination,  fed  by  compassion,  had  led  him  to 
conjecture. 

"I  have  come  to  feel,"  he  said,  "that  it  may  be  justi- 
fiable for  a  woman  to  leave  her  husband." 

"  Did  you  really  ever  doubt  that  ?  " 

"I  preferred  to  think  that  she  should  accept  her 
destiny  and  go  through  with  it." 

"  Even  when  it  was  hopeless  ?  " 

"That  was  what  I  thought." 

"You  have  changed  your  opinion?" 

"Yes." 

"What  has  made  you  do  that ? " 

"I  have  thought  about  you." 

This  avowal  made  her  happy.  It  carried  sympathy 
forward  on  a  wave  of  affection.  It  gave  her  a  friend. 
She  felt  that  the  sunlight  and  the  warmth  in  the 
garden  entered  and  possessed  her.  At  the  same  time 


ANOTHER    IS   OPENED  '159 

she  was  not  unaware  of  a  certain  nervous  diffidence, 
and  hurried  to  the  telling  of  her  story. 

She  found  it  a  difficult  narrative.  The  avowal  he 
had  just  made  rendered  it  perhaps  more  difficult. 
Besides,  she  was  wholesome-minded;  it  was  natural 
for  her  to  make  light  of  her  own  troubles;  certainly 
she  was  averse  from  what  we  call  making  a  martyr 
of  oneself.  Another  woman  might  surely  have  poured 
into  Mrs.  Dobson's  ears  the  disputation  with  the 
senior  curate,  made  a  mountain  out  of  that  mole-hill ; 
Anne  had  said  nothing.  She  was  not  only  self- 
possessed,  she  was  fastidious. 

Napier  realized  that  he  was  listening  to  an  outline. 
His  knowledge  of  the  world  and  his  sympathy  with 
the  beautiful  girl  at  his  side  filled  in  the  details.  The 
sketch  in  this  way  became  the  picture.  Anne  told  half 
the  story  to  Napier,  Napier  told  the  other  half  to 
himself. 

His  acquaintance  with  the  laxity,  licentiousness  and 
self-indulgence  of  English  plutocracy  was  not  great; 
he  had  general  notions  of  its  intemperance  and  luxury ; 
he  was  inclined  to  mass  the  sensualism  of  these  people 
in  the  comprehensive  idea  of  vulgarity,  which  is  some- 
thing contemptible  and  disgusting,  rather  than  in- 
famous. Nevertheless,  although  he  knew  really 
nothing  of  the  corruption  of  this  modern  hedonism,  he 
quite  comprehended  from  Anne's  story  that  her  situa- 
tion had  been  insufferable.  She  was  careful  to  say 
nothing  of  her  husband;  it  was  not  a  man  she 
arraigned  but  an  atmosphere  she  described,  a  mode  of 
existence  she  denounced.  There  was  a  certain  dis- 


160  THE   CAGE 

dain,  a  righteous  haughtiness  of  contempt,  in  her 
description  of  the  life  she  had  been  expected  to  live, 
the  class  of  persons  she  had  been  expected  to  like. 
From  the  tone  of  her  voice  one  might  have  thought 
that  the  memory  almost  amused  her. 

"It  was  impossible,"  he  said,  at  the  end  of  the 
narrative. 

"Quite  impossible." 

"I  wish  your  father  had  been  alive  to  save  you." 

"My  mother  told  me  he  desired  the  marriage." 

"That  puzzles  me." 

"It  is  probably  untrue." 

Her  bitterness  made  him  say,  "I  am  so  sorry  for 
you,  Anne." 

She  recovered  her  placidity.  "It  is  good  of  you  to 
be  interested,"  she  said,  smiling.  "My  experience  of 
marriage  is  useful  in  thinking  about  the  whole  ques- 
tion, because  it  is  so  commonplace.  Let  me  see  if  I 
can  convert  you.  At  the  beginning  we  must  say  that 
it  was  a  difference  in  disposition,  temperament  and 
taste  which  divided  me  from  my  husband  and  my 
husband  from  me.  There  is  his  point  of  view.  He 
liked  people  and  occupations  impossible  for  me  to 
like.  We  separated  without  an  explanation.  None 
was  necessary.  We  both  felt  that  the  thing  was 
impossible.  You  agree  that  I  was  justified  in  leaving 
him?  You  don't  accuse  me  of  breaking  my  vows? 
But  the  problem  is  only  just  beginning.  Am  I 
entitled  to  my  freedom  ?  I  don't  mean  to  marry  again, 
but  to  keep  my  freedom  unmolested.  Suppose  my 
husband  wrote  to  me  after  this  long  separation  and 


ANOTHER    IS   OPENED  161 

asked  me — shall  we  say  ordered  me? — to  come  and 
play  hostess  to  his  friends;  ought  I  to  obey,  is  it  my 
duty  to  be  obedient  ?  " 

He  sat  silent  at  her  side,  and  for  the  first  time  she 
turned  and  looked  at  him.  "I  suppose  not,"  he  said 
slowly.  "In  your  case  I  should  say  No." 

She  was  surprised  at  the  slowness  with  which  he 
made  this  concession.  "I  received  such  a  letter  this 
morning,"  she  said,  turning  away. 

She  was  conscious  that  he  started.  The  movement 
was  almost  imperceptible.  "  You  refuse  to  go  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"Yes." 

"I  think  you  are  right." 

There  was  no  tardiness  in  this  statement;  it  was 
emphatic. 

She  said  with  some  energy,  "I  am  certainly  right. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  world  that  would  make  me 
submit  to  humiliation.  I  reject  the  religion,  the  law, 
the  public  opinion  that  says  one  human  creature  has 
the  right  to  degrade  another.  I  stand  clear  of  all 
that.  But  even  now  the  problem  is  only  at  a  begin- 
ning. I  refuse  to  go.  I  defend  my  freedom.  The 
law,  however,  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  me.  I 
shelter  and  defend  myself,  outside  the  law.  That  is 
the  woman's  fate.  The  law,  if  it  wish,  can  seek  me 
out,  drag  me  before  the  world,  and  punish  me,  for 
what? — my  self-respect.  Do  you  think  that  is  quite 
fair?  Do  you  think  that  the  law  should  not  be 
altered?" 

"I  don't  understand.*' 

M 


162  THE   CAGE 

"A  husband  can  divorce  his  wife  if  she  refuse  to  live 
with  him." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her.  "I  had  forgotten 
that,"  he  said. 

"  Have  I  converted  you  ? "  she  inquired,  and  met 
his  gaze  for  a  moment. 

"  You  have  refused  to  go  back  ?  " 

"Yes.     Quite  definitely." 

"Whatever  the  consequences?** 

"  Nothing  could  make  me  go  back." 

"If  he  wants  to  be  free  he  would  be  glad  of  this 
refusal?" 

"I  know." 

"He  might  bring  an  action?  It  is  almost  certain 
that  he  will." 

"It  would  be  better  than  molestation." 

"  I  like  to  think  of  you  free,  but ** 

"One  would  suffer  a  little,  be  a  scandal  to  Miss 
Potter  for  ever,  but  one  would  be  free." 

The  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Dobson  appeared,  with 
Minionette  close  behind  ready  to  put  up  a  sunshade. 
The  little  old  lady  wore  a  mushroom  hat  and  had 
a  white  shawl  of  Indian  silk  over  her  shoulders.  She 
stood  outside  the  porch,  a  book  in  her  hands,  blinking 
at  the  sunshine. 

Anne  and  Napier,  who  heard  the  opening  of  the 
door,  rose  from  their  seat. 

As  they  descended  the  mound  he  said  to  her, 
"You  have  converted  me  I  want  you  to  be 
free." 

He  had  said  everything. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

THE  TWO   LETTERS 

ON  the  afternoon  of  this  same  day  Hugh  Napier 
went  into  the  Harbour  Hotel.  He  entered  the  smok- 
ing-room. Major  Lauden,  with  the  felt  hat  which 
was  too  small  for  him  cocked  on  one  side  of  his  head, 
was  sitting  on  an  upright  chair,  asleep.  The  fat  but 
still  athletic  body  showed  none  of  the  collapse  of 
slumber;  one  leg  was  crossed  energetically,  the  knee 
pointing  upward;  the  shoulders  were  square;  in  the 
expression  of  the  squab  hands,  one  of  which  grasped 
the  bowl  of  his  pipe,  there  was  action ;  the  face  was  not 
without  a  certain  alert  dignity ;  one  felt  that  if  he  were 
awakened  he  would  spring  to  attention,  clicking  his 
heels  together,  expecting  an  order.  The  mouth  was 
firmly  closed.  The  eyelids  were  compressed.  There 
was  a  frown  between  the  brows.  Through  the  nostrils 
came  a  raucous  sound,  almost  a  moan. 

An  empty  tumbler  stood  on  a  table  at  his  side; 
like  a  death's  head. 

Napier  sat  down,  with  a  newspaper  in  his  hand. 
Later,  when  the  light  faded,  he  dropped  the  paper  at 
his  side,  and  settled  further  down  in  his  chair,  his  eyes 
turned  towards  the  windows,  his  thoughts  with  Anne. 

M  2  163 


164  THE   CAGE 

He  was  roused  by  an  exclamation  bursting  from  the 
sleeping  man. 

He  turned  his  head  in  that  direction,  and  saw  that 
the  old  soldier  was  sitting  forward  excitedly,  a  hand 
on  each  knee,  staring  at  him  through  the  twilight  of 
the  room  with  open  mouth  and  eyes  of  amazement. 

With  another  exclamation,  hoarsely  uttered  on 
account  of  his  sleep,  the  major  suddenly  sprang  to 
his  feet  and  came  down  the  room.  "My  dear  fellow," 
he  said,  clearing  his  throat,  "you  gave  me  a  frightful 
start.  I  woke  up,  saw  you,  and  went  back  thirty  years 
in  my  life.  You're  the  image — the  living  image — 
of  a  man  in  my  regiment.  I  could  have  sworn  I  was 
back  in  the  past."  He  laid  a  hand  on  Napier's 
shoulder,  and  went  on,  "You've  always  puzzled  me. 
You've  always  half-suggested  some  one  to  me.  Just 
now,  in  the  grey  of  the  room,  with  the  light  from 
the  window  on  your  face,  sitting  over  here  in  a  kind 
of  reverie,  your  profile  was  not  a  likeness,  it  was  the 
actual  face  of  poor  Arthur  Gorham.  You  must  be 
some  relation." 

Napier  shook  his  head. 

"Oh,  but,  my  dear  fellow,  you  must  be  I  u 

Napier  smiled.     "No;  I  assure  you." 

"You  know  who  I  mean,  don't  you  ?  " 

"I've  never  heard  the  name  before." 

"Not  Arthur  Gorham  ?  Poor  Arthur  Gorham  ?  By 
George,  how  the  world  forgets !  A  good  thing,  a 
deuced  good  thing.  But  you  were  a  boy  at  the  time." 
He  checked  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "Arthur 
Gorham  is  brother  to  the  present  Lord  Stamford,  son 


THE   TWO    LETTERS  165 

of  the  old  marquis  who  shot  Colonel  Channing  in 
Brussels.  You're  the  image  of  him.  Not  so  much 
now  as  you  were  a  moment  ago.  What  were  you 
doing,  dreaming?  Arthur  wasn't  a  dreamer,  but 
there  was  something  romantic  about  him.  I  assure 
you,  a  moment  ago  you  were  the  actual  living  image 
of  that  man.  It  was  the  look  in  your  face — sadness, 
reverie,  a  kind  of  languor.  The  first  time  I've  seen 
you  in  the  mood.  The  likeness  jumped  to  me." 

The  major  could  not  get  over  this  suddenly  detected 
likeness.  When  he  was  left  alone  he  kept  marching 
up  and  down  the  room,  in  and  out  of  the  tables, 
muttering  to  himself  that  it  was  the  strangest  thing 
in  the  world.  A  small  incident  is  a  perturbation  in  the 
life  of  a  man  with  nothing  to  do  but  drink  himself 
to  death.  Lauden  mentioned  the  matter  to  the  bar- 
maid, to  the  wife  of  the  proprietor,  to  the  chamber- 
maid when  he  went  up-stairs  to  search  among  his 
old  photographs  for  a  possible  portrait  of  Arthur  Gor- 
ham,  to  the  ostler  when  he  went  into  the  yard  with 
a  plate  of  bones  for  Trooper.  He  was  back  in  the 
past.  The  days  of  his  soldiering  returned  to  him. 
This  old  man,  who  had  broken  his  heart  over  the  death 
of  his  youngest  son  in  the  South  African  war,  had 
his  eyes  filled  with  moisture  as  he  recalled  the  follies, 
the  wildness,  the  adventures,  the  high  spirits  and  the 
devilries  of  his  youth. 

In  the  midst  of  these  reminiscences  was  the  convic- 
tion that  some  mystery  united  Arthur  Gorham  and 
Hugh  Napier. 

The  idea  grew  with  him.     The  more  he  talked  the 


166  THE   CAGE 

more  he  became  convinced  of  it.  He  began  to  recall, 
too,  certain  conversations  in  Borhaven  concerning 
Napier.  Who  was  this  romantic  man,  this  lonely 
sailor,  who  made  no  mention  of  father  or  mother, 
brother  or  sister,  who  appeared  to  have  no  birthplace, 
no  home,  no  past?  People  had  talked,  Lauden  had 
talked  with  them;  the  mystery  came  back  to  him. 

He  began  to  make  calculations.  The  age  of  Napier. 
The  time  when  the  regiment  was  at  Edinburgh. 

"By  George,"  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  "I'll  write 
to  Arthur.  I  will !  It  may  be  nothing.  It  may  be 
the  deuce  of  a  romance.  I'll  write." 

While  Major  Lauden  was  in  this  condition  of  excite- 
ment, Anne  was  quietly  tearing  up  the  letter  she  had 
written  to  her  husband. 

A  new  decision  had  been  formed  in  her  mind. 
Napier's  last  words  had  inspired  her  with  a  fresh 
impulse  to  freedom.  She  was  one  of  those  composed 
women  who  are  courageous,  clear-sighted,  and,  when 
the  situation  demands  it,  resolute.  When  she  saw  a 
course  before  her  there  was  something  tenacious  in 
her  determination  to  go  forward.  Circumstance  might 
have  made  her  merely  an  obstinate  woman,  but  for 
heredity ;  she  was  the  daughter  of  Robert  Ainslie. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  to  clear  her  life  of  confusion, 
to  make  her  path,  once  and  for  all,  straight  before  her 
feet ;  to  disentangle  herself  from  the  bonds  of  the  past, 
and  for  ever  to  stand  clear  of  their  complications,  it 
was  necessary  that  she  should  see  her  husband  and 
make  her  announcement  face  to  face.  She  had  grown 
tired  of  half-lights,  unsettlement,  vagueness,  a  com- 


THE   TWO    LETTERS  167 

promise  never  made,  a  freedom  never  ratified,  the 
tacitness  of  her  independence.  The  distaste  for  a 
personal  conflict  was  overcome  by  the  hope  of  its 
issue. 

In  this  way  it  came  about  that  a  letter  from  Anne 
telling  her  husband  that  she  would  come  to  London 
the  day  after  the  morrow,  lay  that  evening  in  Bor- 
haven  Post  Office  with  a  letter  from  Major  Lauden  to 
the  father  of  Hugh  Napier. 

On  the  next  day  Anne  told  Napier  of  her  intention. 
He  looked  at  her  and  said,  "  I  think  that  you  are  right  ; 
I  know  that  you  are  brave." 


CHAPTER   XV 

THE  UNEXPECTED 

THE  fly  taking  Anne  to  the  railway  station  on  this 
momentous  journey  had  hardly  got  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  out  of  Borhaven  when  she  felt  the  horse  pulled 
up,  and  looking  forward,  perceived  Napier  at  the  side 
of  the  road  coming  towards  her. 

This  surprise  pleased  her.  She  Kad  been  feeling 
lonely.  He  entered  the  dusty  old  carriage,  with  its 
white  holland  coverings  and  its  sheepskin  mat,  say- 
ing, "I  thought  you  wouldn't  mind." 

She  answered,  "This  is  very  nice  of  you.  I  am 
glad." 

He  sat  on  the  opposite  seat  so  that  he  might  see 
her. 

At  first  they  spoke  indifferently  of  anything  that 
entered  their  heads.  The  pure  air  of  the  early  morn- 
ing made  them  cheerful,  the  scent  of  the  gorse  rose 
like  honey  to  their  nostrils,  the  bright  sunlight, 
caught  and  reflected  by  the  dew,  gladdened  their 
senses.  They  were  climbing  to  high  country,  with 
the  sea  drawing  farther  behind  them,  and  yet  becom- 
ing with  every  turn  of  the  wheels  more  visible — a 
misty  circle  of  iridescent  water  to  which  Napier  more 
than  once  pointed  Anne's  gaze. 

"Even  a  collier  looks  well  from   here,"   he  said. 

1 68 


THE    UNEXPECTED  169 

"  However,  the  difference  of  sails !  Look  at  those 
Lowestoft  drifters !  "  He  explained  to  her  that  these 
Lowestoft  smacks  have  their  mizzens  raked  forward, 
and  that  they  set  large  reaching  jibs  when  the  wind 
is  light. 

As  they  began  to  descend  the  hill  on  the  other  side 
of  this  high  ground,  losing  the  sea  which  always 
inspired  him  with  enthusiasm,  Napier  turned  his  gaze 
to  Anne's  face,  sat  forward  on  his  seat,  leaning 
towards  her,  and  began  to  speak  of  her  journey. 

The  protector  was  strong  in  him.  He  had  been 
thinking  all  the  previous  day  of  this  solitary  woman, 
little  more  than  a  girl,  going  to  face  a  man  whom 
vice  had  made  odious  and  marriage  her  tyrant. 

He  tried  as  delicately  as  he  could  to  convey  his 
sympathy,  to  repress  his  admiration. 

Finally  he  said,  "I  wish  I  could  go  for  you." 

"I  might  have  written,"  she  replied,  acknowledging 
this  sympathy  with  her  eyes.  "It  is  better  that  I 
should  say  what  there  is  to  say."  She  paused  for  a 
moment,  and  added,  "It  is  a  long  time  since  I  saw 
him.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  to  see  a  stranger.  But 
I  am  not  afraid." 

"One  day  you  will  forget  that  he  existed." 

At  the  railway  station  he  took  her  ticket,  bought 
magazines  and  newspapers  for  her  at  the  bookstall, 
and  then  walked  at  her  side  to  and  fro  on  the  plat- 
form, waiting  for  the  London  train. 

"I  shall  be  here  when  you  come  back,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  made  answer.  "It  will  be  late.  You 
will  have  nothing  to  do  all  day." 


i70  THE   CAGE 

"I  shall  be  waiting  for  you,"  he  said,  and  their 
eyes  met. 

When  the  train  departed,  he  turned  his  back  on  the 
station,  and  passing  through  the  least  frequented 
streets  in  the  town,  came  out  on  a  road  which  led  to 
high  country  and  woods. 

Anne  did  not  read  the  newspapers  he  had  laid  at 
her  side  in  the  carriage.  She  found  her  thoughts 
tending  to  run  riot,  and  set  herself  to  bring  them  into 
order.  She  essayed  to  dominate  these  errant  and 
undisciplined  children  of  the  brain  with  the  one  and 
central  resolution  to  be  firm. 

But  her  thoughts  would  not  be  ruled.  They  ran 
hither  and  thither  in  her  brain,  carrying  little  tapers 
into  dim  corners,  and  flourishing  these  tiny  brands 
through  long  corridors  which  had  many  doors  and 
no  windows.  These  tapers,  these  ideas,  distracted 
her  at  every  moment  of  her  musings.  She  found 
herself  looking  at  things  covered  with  the  dust  of  ages, 
and  contemplating  vistas  which  led  whither  she  could 
not  see.  Her  father  seemed  to  be  standing  in  the 
shadow  of  one  of  those  half-opened  doors.  Her  littte 
grandmother  called  to  her  from  the  end  of  the  cor- 
ridor. Behind  her  sounded  the  footsteps  of  her  child- 
hood. At  every  moment  the  thoughts  ran  on,  staying 
at  no  door,  resting  at  no  corner,  but  always  finding 
fresh  darkness  into  which  to  plunge  and  brandish 
their  flames. 

Anne  closed  her  eyes,  and  endeavoured  to  still  her 
thoughts.     She   revolted  against  these   innumerable 


THE   UNEXPECTED  171 

ideas.  Her  brain  rebelled,  as  well  as  her  central  intel- 
ligence. She  tried  to  think  of  something  else. 

She  thought  of  Napier. 

When  the  train  arrived  in  London  she  was  cold 
and  numb  with  a  nervous  disquiet.  She  feared  the 
ordeal.  She  felt  no  energy  for  her  task.  She  was 
inspired  by  no  iron  resolution  of  will.  The  long 
apprehension  and  anticipation  of  this  great  determin- 
ing event  had  exhausted  her  strength.  "I  must  go 
through  it,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh;  and  left  the  issue 
to  chance. 

She  was  crossing  the  platform  to  the  cab-rank 
when,  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd,  she  felt  her  arm 
touched  lightly  from  behind,  and  heard  at  the  same 
time  her  name  spoken  by  her  husband. 

She  turned  to  him  a  face  that  was  quite  white. 

Her  first  view  of  him  was  a  blurred  picture,  a 
glimpse  of  a  familiar  figure  caught  through  frosted 
glass.  She  only  saw  that  he  was  tall,  fresh-coloured, 
and  that  he  smiled.  She  was  conscious  in  him  of 
awkwardness  and  a  strange  sense  of  protecting  kind- 
ness. As  she  looked  away  from  his  face  she  heard 
him  speaking.  He  said  something  about  her  long 
journey;  she  heard  the  word  motor-car;  she  walked 
with  him  up  the  platform,  struggling  for  control  of  her 
nerves. 

A  footman  opened  the  door  of  a  motor-car,  touch- 
ing his  cap  as  she  set  her  foot  upon  the  step.  She 
found  herself  sitting  in  a  corner  of  a  roomy,  drab- 
lined  interior,  and  saw  her  husband  stooping  to  place 


i72  THE   CAGE 

a  hassock  for  her  feet.  He  said  something  in  praise 
of  the  car,  asking  her  if  she  found  it  comfortable. 
"We  shall  get  some  air  directly  she  moves,"  he  said, 
and  sat  back. 

He  was  dressed  in  a  grey  suit,  with  a  black  tie,  a 
soft  felt  hat,  and  linen  gaiters  on  his  boots.  She  was 
conscious,  as  she  half  turned  to  answer  his  questions, 
of  an  atmosphere  about  him  which  was  new,  which 
was  strange,  which  was  baffling.  The  old  sense  of 
great  wealth  was  there,  the  sense  which  in  some  subtle 
way  made  for  power;  prosperity  showed  in  the  least 
detail  of  his  simple  dress;  he  was  still  the  man  of  the 
world,  the  man  of  great  possessions,  the  true  lord  of 
an  age  absorbed  by  industrialism.  But  there  was 
something  superadded,  some  fresh  emanation,  and 
this  new  something  had  taken  the  place  of  some  old 
quality  which  she  missed  in  him. 

Gradually  it  came  to  her,  the  truth  of  this  change. 
The  missing  quality  was  animalism.  The  new  quality 
was  health. 

A  fresh  vigour  had  come  to  him.  His  great  body, 
with  its  massive  shoulders  and  its  bull  neck,  was  less 
loaded  with  flesh.  The  line  of  his  cheeks  was  cleaner 
drawn.  The  sheen  of  his  skin  was  no  longer  clouded 
by  heat.  There  was  an  almost  crystal  brightness  in 
his  blue  eyes.  Even  his  voice  witnessed  to  this 
physical  regeneration.  It  had  lost  its  low,  bullying, 
and  rather  brutal  note.  There  was  something  fresh 
and  spontaneous,  almost  boylike,  in  this  new  intona- 
tion. 

When  the  car  was  clear  of  the  station,  he  spoke 


THE    UNEXPECTED  ^73 

about  her  return  that  night.  "It  seems  absurd,"  he 
laughed,  "to  go  back  the  very  day  you  arrive.  Why 
didn't  you  bring  Mrs.  Dobson  with  you?" 

Anne  said  that  her  grandmother  was  now  too  old 
for  long  journeys. 

"  Does  she  like  Norfolk  ?  "  He  turned  and  looked  at 
her.  "I'm  not  sure  that  it  suits  you.  You  aren't 
looking  as  well  as  I  should  like  to  see  you.  Are  you 
doing  too  much  there,  waiting  on  Mrs.  Dobson,  and 
nursing  her?  " 

"Oh,  no;  I  am  very  well.    The  place  suits  me." 

"The  journey  has  probably  fagged  you.  I  hate 
trains.  You'd  better  let  me  take  you  back  in  the 
car !  " 

He  laughed,  and  she  smiled. 

"How  do  you  think  I'm  looking?"  he  demanded, 
with  a  laugh. 

She  turned  to  him.  His  face  was  bright  with 
pleasant,  self-conscious  smiles. 

"You  look  wonderfully  well,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  "wonderfully  well."  Her  gaze  moved  quickly 
to  the  window  at  his  side  of  the  car;  as  quickly  it 
turned  to  look  straight  ahead. 

"I  never  felt  better  in  my  life."  She  heard  him 
laugh  confidently  and  cheerfully.  "I've  discovered 
the  secret  of  health  and  happiness.  What  do  you 
think  it  is  ?  " 

"I  can't  guess." 

"Physical  culture!"  He  laughed.  "It's  my 
religion,"  he  said,  stretching  out  his  legs  the  length 
of  the  car.  "Well,  a  good  part  of  it.  I  believe  a 


174  THE   CAGE 

healthy  body  is  the  foundation  of  everything.  One 
can't  get  the  best  out  of  life  with  a  bad  physical 
apparatus.  It's  like  the  engine  of  a  motor-car. 
There's  a  rage  for  physical  culture.  It's  working  a 
kind  of  revolution.  Half  the  men  of  my  acquaint- 
ance are  going  in  for  it.  Old  Phizzy  Scott  has  prac- 
tically cured  himself  of  gout;  he's  sixty-two  this 
December;  you'd  hardly  know  him  for  the  same  man. 
And  it's  a  kind  of  policeman,  too.  It  stops  a  man 
from  playing  fast  and  loose  with  his  chances.  I 
believe  there's  been  more  barley-water  than  whisky 
drunk  at  the  clubs  this  year.  Fellows  are  taking  care 
of  themselves.  It's  a  good  thing.  The  other's  purest 
folly.  No  fun  in  it  at  all." 

She  began  to  realize  that  something  for  which  she 
had  not  prepared  had  definitely  happened,  was  here 
as  an  accomplished  fact,  near  her,  quite  near  and 
insistent — the  unexpected,  the  surprise.  She  had 
framed  and  strung  all  her  ideas  through  these  last 
months  of  revolution  on  a  fact  that  had  passed,  on  a 
truth  that  had  become  a  falsehood.  It  was  impossible 
to  organize  on  the  instant  a  new  set  of  thoughts,  a 
new  school  of  ideas,  to  meet  this  contradiction  of  her 
experience.  She  could  only  wait  to  see  what  burden 
the  thing  itself  would  lay  upon  her  will.  Then  she 
would  act.  Then  she  would  know  what  to  say.  For 
the  present  her  mind  was  in  darkness  and  confusion. 
The  old  troop  of  ideas  had  deserted  her;  of  the  old 
thoughts  not  one  remained. 

When  the  car  had  threaded  its  way  through  the 
City,  and  the  light  and  air  of  the  Embankment  came 


THE   UNEXPECTED  1?5 

to  them  with  the  pleasant  feeling  of  increased  speed, 
he  spoke  more  cheerfully  and  more  confidently  of  the 
good  things  life  held  for  those  who  keep  their  bodies 
in  fitness.  He  told  her  that  he  had  sold  his  old  yacht 
in  the  Clyde,  and  was  buying  a  steamer  which  was 
big  enough  to  go  anywhere.  He  was  too  heavy  for 
hunting,  he  said;  and  England  was  scarcely  worth 
living  in  after  the  first  month  of  pheasant  shooting; 
it  would  be  a  real  pleasure  to  get  away  to  the  Mediter- 
ranean in  November;  the  sun  kept  people  alive;  there 
was  always  amusement  along  that  coast ;  and  the  ship 
was  as  comfortable  as  one's  own  house. 

"But  you  believe  in  the  simple  life,"  he  said,  laugh- 
ing. He  turned  and  looked  at  her  with  amusement 
and  indulgence.  "Don't  you  ?  " 

"We  have  been  doing  with  one  servant,"  she 
replied,  trying  to  smile. 

He  exclaimed  at  behaviour  §o  extraordinary.  "I 
hope  you  haven't  been  spoiling  your  hands,"  he  said. 
The  tone  of  his  voice,  the  sudden  note  of  intimacy, 
froze  her.  She  shuddered,  and  he  noticed  it. 
"Some  one  is  walking  over  your  grave!"  he  said. 
"You  aren't  cold,  are  you?  Shall  I  pull  up  that 
window  ?  " 

"Oh  no,"  she  answered;  "I'm  no?  cold."  She 
leaned  a  little  forward  and  looked  from  the  window 
as  though  something  had  attracted  her  attention. 

"London  must  seem  new  to  you,"  he  said.  "Let's 
see ;  how  long  is  it  since  you  started  on  your  pilgrim- 
age of  the  simple  life?  It  must  be  nearly  two  years." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  is." 


THE   CAGE 

"That's  a  long  time  to  be  away  from  London. 
Don't  you  want  to  shop  ?  " 

"I  might  pay  one  or  two  calls  on  my  way  to  the 
station  this  afternoon." 

"But  you  aren't  seriously  going  back  so  soon  ?  " 

"Oh  yes." 

Her  mind  realized  the  peril  which  had  befallen  her. 
The  future  was  definitely  divided.  No  longer  did  she 
stand  on  one  straight  road,  with  the  familiar  alter- 
natives of  turning  back  to  what  was  repugnant,  and 
odious,  and  abominable,  or  of  going  forward  to  what 
was  beautiful  and  good.  There  were  two  paths,  not 
one  road,  and  they  stretched  ahead  of  her.  They 
belonged  to  the  future.  She  must  choose  between 
duty  and  inclination.  She  must  go  forward  on  one 
of  these  two  roads.  And  on  whichever  way  she 
travelled,  conscience,  she  felt  sharply  and  perplexedly, 
would  upbraid  her.  It  would  be  better  to  journey 
without  love;  the  other  path  must  be  haunted  by  the 
ghost  of  duty. 

When  the  car  stopped  before  their  house  in  Wilton 
Crescent,  Anne  felt  as  she  crossed  the  threshold  like 
a  person  entering  a  prison.  The  footmen  who  stared 
at  her,  the  butler  who  bowed  to  her,  were  like  accom- 
plices in  her  abduction.  They  seemed  to  be  waiting 
for  a  word  from  their  master,  watching  her  for  resist- 
ance. The  closing  of  the  door  behind  her  struck  a 
chill  of  terror  through  her  soul.  She  felt  alone, 
isolated,  cut  off  from  help,  alone  with  tremendous 
danger. 

The   house   revived   no  memories  as  she   passed 


THE    UNEXPECTED  177 

through  the  hall.  The  past  came  more  vividly  to  her 
mind  when  she  heard  her  husband  speaking  to  the 
butler  of  "Mrs.  Paton."  She  remembered  the  stair- 
carpet.  The  view  of  the  dining-room,  seen  through 
a  half-open  door,  became  familiar.  They  told  her  that 
her  room  was  ready,  and  she  ascended  the  stairs.  She 
was  conscious  of  the  young  men  watching  her.  She 
heard  her  husband  speaking  to  the  butler  as  he  walked 
to  his  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 

A  new  housemaid  was  standing  beside  her  door  on 
the  second  floor.  Anne  acknowledged  her  greeting, 
and  passed  into  the  room  without  speaking.  It  was 
prepared  for  her.  There  was  not  only  the  can  of  hot 
water,  covered  by  a  cozy,  in  the  basin,  but  the  bed 
was  made,  the  dressing-table  was  spread  with  its 
necessaries,  and  everywhere  there  were  flowers.  It 
was  the  sight  of  these  flowers  which  filled  her  with  her 
first  sense  of  despair. 

When  she  came  down-stairs  Paton  was  standing  in 
the  hall  to  receive  her.  His  fresh-coloured  face  was 
raised ;  there  was  a  smile  of  welcome  on  his  lips ;  as 
she  reached  the  last  stair  he  put  out  his  hand.  "Come 
along,"  he  said,  and  led  her  into  the  room. 

The  big  table  had  been  taken  away.  They  sat  at  a 
round  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  which  was 
decorated  with  beautiful  flowers  and  was  crowded  with 
glass  of  the  most  exquisite  workmanship — much  of  it 
wedding  presents.  There  were  flowers  in  the  boxes 
of  the  open  windows,  and  flowers  on  the  sideboard. 
It  was  like  lunching  in  a  winter  garden,  open  to  fresh 
air. 

N 


i78  THE   CAGE 

She  spoke  about  the  flowers,  eager  to  find  a  topic. 
She  felt  that  the  footman  who  brought  her  something 
from  the  sideboard  was  looking  at  her.  This  con- 
sciousness of  the  servants  made  her  vexed  with  herself. 
She  took  toast  from  a  little  rack  in  front  of  her,  and 
began  to  eat  what  had  been  set  before  her.  An  effort 
of  the  will  enabled  her  to  appear  more  cheerful.  She 
spoke  about  the  journey,  the  early  start,  the  nine- 
mile  drive  across  open  country,  the  tameness  of  the 
pheasants,  which  lay  in  the  road  unfrightened  by  the 
carriage,  the  scent  of  the  gorse,  the  widening  view  of 
the  sea  as  the  distance  increased.  Then  she  asked 
him  about  America,  and  listened  with  a  wonderful 
simulation  of  interest  to  his  broken,  dull,  and  in- 
coherent narrative. 

It  was  impossible  for  her  not  to  compare  this  man 
with  the  other.  The  comparison  was  driven  home  to 
her  by  the  mere  difference  in  their  narrative  power. 
Napier  could  make  a  little  village  in  Denmark  vivid 
and  real  to  her ;  could  people  its  quay,  could  open  its 
cottage  doors,  could  lift  its  church  spire  above  the 
pines,  and  make  her  hear  the  wheels  of  the  wagons 
turning  on  its  stones.  This  man  had  brought  back 
from  the  vast  and  amazing  world  of  America — 
nothing.  He  had  looked  at  it,  as  a  farmer  looks  at 
fat-stock ;  it  was  big,  it  was  noisy,  it  was  busy ;  people 
over  there  were  markedly  alive;  the  whole  thing  was 
rather  imposing.  Whatever  opinions  America  had 
formed  in  his  mind,  he  uttered  them  with  a  tolerant 
and  condescending  amusement.  He  had  seen  a  con- 
tinent, and  could  deliver  his  impressions  in  a  sentence. 


THE   UNEXPECTED  '179 

After  coffee  had  been  served,  he  asked  her  if  she 
would  come  and  sit  in  his  room.  "Not  that  I  want  to 
smoke,"  he  said,  smiling;  "but  it's  more  comfortable 
than  the  drawing-room.  I've  knocked  off  smoking 
till  the  evening.  I  find  I'm  ever  so  much  better 
without  it." 

His  room  was  new  to  her.  She  had  visited  it,  per- 
haps, half-a-dozen  times  in  the  past.  She  was  grateful 
for  its  shadows,  its  absence  of  bright  light.  The 
dullness  of  the  carpet  and  the  darkness  of  the  book- 
lined  walls  created  an  atmosphere  which  helped  to 
compose  her  mind.  As  she  advanced  to  the  hearth, 
she  saw  a  photograph  of  herself  on  the  mantelpiece. 

He  wheeled  a  low  chair  to  her.  "Is  this  comfort- 
able ?  "  he  asked.  When  she  was  seated,  he  walked 
over  to  the  table  in  the  window,  and,  with  his  back 
turned,  said  good-humou redly  but  nervously,  "I've 
got  something  to  say  to  you,  Anne,  which  is  rather 
difficult.  I  suppose  you  can  guess  it."  He  turned 
and  came  towards  her  with  a  photograph  in  his  hand. 
"You've  got  every  reason,  I'm  bound  to  confess,  to 
know  what  I  ought  to  say,  and  what  I  want  to  say." 
He  stood  with  his  back  to  the  mantelpiece,  smiling, 
awkward,  self-conscious,  and  yet  in  some  occult 
fashion  pleased  with  himself.  "I  want  to  tell  you 
I'm  sorry.  I  want  to  beg  your  pardon.  Repentance 
is  always  an  awkward  business.  It's  one  of  those 
queer  things  in  life  which  aren't  easy  to  talk  about. 
But  I  want  you  to  know  that  I'm  sorry  for  past 
blunders,  and  that  I  have  made  up  my  mind  they 
shall  never  be  repeated.  I  hope  you  forgive  me." 

N2 


i8o  THE   CAGE 

This  was  his  offer.  The  last  thing  she  could  have 
desired  was  the  amendment  of  life  he  proffered  with 
such  smiling  and  natural  satisfaction.  Her  course 
could  only  be  happy  if  he  were  iniquitous.  His  evil 
was  her  warrant.  His  sin  was  her  freedom. 

"I  forgave  all  that  long  ago,"  she  said. 

"But  the  thing  is,"  he  answered,  still  smiling,  "can 
you  forget  it  ?  Look  here,  Anne,"  he  added,  speaking 
with  more  serious  energy,  "I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing more.  I'm  not  only  seeking  to  renew  the  old 
terms ;  I  want  to  begin  again  on  new  terms,  on  better 
terms.  I  don't  want  to  muddle  our  life.  I  waat  to 
make  it  as  good  as  I  can.  It  can  be  very  good. 
We've  got  everything  in  the  world  to  make  us  happy. 
It's  only  ourselves  who  can  prevent  this  happiness. 
You  have  every  right  to  doubt  me,  every  reason  to 
distrust  my  reform.  I  was  a  brute.  When  I  look 
back,  I  hate  myself.  But  I  want  you  to  hear  my 
story.  Don't  judge  my  seriousness  in  the  matter  till 
you've  heard  the  tale.  There's  a  woman  in  it !  "  He 
laughed.  "But  you're  not  the  kind  to  be  jealous,  and 
she's  not  the  kind  to  make  other  women  jealous."  He 
put  the  photograph  that  he  had  been  holding  into  her 
hand. 

It  was  a  matronly  face,  remarkable  for  a  singular 
sweetness  of  expression.  A  photograph — which 
misses  all  the  qualities  of  colour — can  only  represent 
a  face  with  truth  to  those  who  have  knowledge  of  it; 
to  the  stranger  it  can  offer  nothing  but  vague  sugges- 
tion. This  picture  in  Anne's  hand  suggested  to  her 
a  kind  and  benignant  personality,  a  gentle  and  refined 


THE    UNEXPECTED  181 

spirit,  a  woman  whose  society  would  be  restful  and 
calming.  "It  is  a  sweet  face,"  she  said. 

"I  think  it's  the  greatest  Madonna  in  the  world," 
he  said.  "I  wish  you  could  see  her.  But  some  day 
you  will.  Do  you  know,  Anne,  it's  one  of  my  big 
hopes  to  bring  you  two  to  know  each  other.  That 
woman  has  saved  my  life.  Through  her  we  can  begin 
again." 

Anne  looked  into  the  face  in  the  photograph.  Her 
heart  was  beating  with  nervous  haste.  She  was  con- 
scious of  dry  ness  in  her  throat.  She  felt  the  blood 
mounting  to  her  cheeks  and  forehead. 

What  had  this  woman  done,  this  smiling,  sweet- 
eyed,  commonplace  matron?  The  gentle  eyes,  the 
benign  lips,  the  cheeks  shadowed  by  a  smile,  sug- 
gested some  secret,  some  hidden  motive,  deep-lying 
and  absorbing,  like  the  less  spiritual  smile  of  the 
Mona  Lisa.  What  had  she  done?  What  was  her 
power?  What  ruin  had  she  worked  with  those  kind 
eyes  ?  What  tragedy  had  she  brought  about  with 
those  smiling  lips  ? 

Through  her  driven  and  frightened  thoughts  she 
heard  the  voice  of  her  husband,  heard  the  complaisant 
voice  proceeding  with  evident  pleasure,  like  a  school- 
boy sure  of  his  recitation.  He  had  met  this  Mrs. 
Davidson  on  the  steamer  going  out.  (Whom  had  he 
met?  Oh,  this  woman  with  the  smiling  lips.  She 
must  listen.  The  story  was  important.)  She  was 
American.  She  lived  in  Boston.  (This  woman  with 
the  gentle  eyes;  this  woman  who  had  wrought  such 
havoc.)  He  had  spoken  to  her  on  the  second  day 


182  THE   CAGE 

out.  After  that  they  had  become  inseparables.  People 
must  have  thought  them  engaged !  (His  laughter 
burst  upon  her  brain.)  But  their  conversation  had 
been  about  serious  things.  She  made  serious  things 
interesting  to  him.  He  only  played  one  evening  of 
bridge  the  whole  voyage !  She  made  him  think. 
When  she  had  gone  to  her  cabin,  he  used  to  walk  up 
and  down  the  deserted  deck,  smoking  cigars,  and 
thinking  things  out;  used  to  look  up  at  the  stars  some- 
times ! — used  to  look  across  the  great  black  circle  of 
heaving  water  and  wonder  what  the  deuce  it  all 
meant ! — the  world,  life,  men  and  women,  the  whole 
mystery  !  (Why  did  he  laugh  at  these  things  ?  Why 
did  he  patronize  the  universe  ?  He  was  the  same  man, 
after  all.) 

She  gave  him  back  the  photograph,  and  raised  her 
eyes  to  his  face.  He  leaned  the  picture  against  her 
own  photograph  on  the  mantelpiece. 

"Now  I  must  tell  you,"  he  said,  beginning  to  smile 
again,  "that  Mrs.  Davidson  belongs  to  rather  a  queer 
sect.  She's  a  Christian  Scientist !  I  never  once 
agreed  with  her  ideas :  I  think  now  they're  utterly 
preposterous;  and  nothing  in  the  world  will  ever 
persuade  me  that  the  thing  has  got  any  sense  in  it. 
So  you  needn't  fea;-  that  I'm  going  to  join  the  Salva- 
tion Army,  or  do  away  with  doctors  !  But  there's 
this  about  Mrs.  Davidson,  and  about  all  the  women 
I  met  at  her  house,  they've  got  some  extraordinary 
gift  of  quietness  and  rest.  I  don't  know  how  to 
describe  it.  It's  something  quite  apart  from  what 
they  say  and  what  they  think.  But  it's  something 


THE    UNEXPECTED  183 

which  you  can't  help  feeling.  They  make  one  feel 
restful.  Rather  a  strange  quality  for  me  to  praise ! 
I  know.  I'm  amazed  at  the  change  myself.  But 
there  it  is.  Whatever  I  may  think  about  it,  the  thing 
is  fact.  I'm  what  you  may  call  converted.  The 
miracle  has  taken  place.  I'm  born  again  !  " 

He  laughed  in  his  satisfied  fashion,  standing 
straight  and  tall,  with  his  legs  apart,  his  back  to  the 
mantelpiece,  his  hands  beating  good-temperedly 
against  his  thighs.  It  was  impossible  not  to  feel  this 
man's  immense  delight  in  his  own  physical  regenera- 
tion, a  delight  which  was  composed  of  vanity  and 
self-esteem.  He  knew  that  he  looked  well,  and  vigor- 
ous, and  active ;  he  knew  that  the  freshness  of  his  face 
and  the  clearness  of  his  eyes  manifested  most  enviable 
and  exceedingly  pleasant  health.  Many  people  had 
told  him  how  well  he  looked.  He  could  not  doubt 
that  Anne  admired  his  splendid  appearance. 

He  talked  for  a  long  time  of  the  effect  made  upon 
him  by  the  niceness  and  charm  of  the  American  ladies 
he  had  met  at  Mrs.  Davidson's,  and  the  change  which 
had  come  over  his  views  and  the  alteration  in  his 
habits  from  these  conversations. 

"Mrs.  Davidson  put  me  on  the  track  of  physical 
culture,"  he  said,  smiling.  "She  saw  that  it  was 
hopeless  to  attempt  making  me  a  Christian  Scientist, 
and  recommended  me  to  try  physical  means  of  getting 
fit.  I  started  in  America.  I  worked  hard  on  the  trip 
back.  And  now  I  find  everybody  in  London  at  the 
same  game.  It's  perfectly  wonderful  what  one  can 
do  with  oneself  in  this  way.  I've  lost  all  superfluous 


184  THE   CAGE 

fat;  my  muscles  are  hard,  my  flesh  firm,  and  my  lungs 
are  like  a  three-year-old's."  He  laughed  good- 
heartedly.  "Isn't  it  a  strange  thing,  this  new  kind 
of  religion,  which  is  going  to  alter  the  face  of  the 
world?  Repentance  has  got  a  new  garment.  The 
penitent  doesn't  go  to  the  priest  to  confess;  he  goes 
to  Sandow  to  get  fit.  Instead  of  Bibles  in  the  parlour 
windows,  we  shall  have  Developers  on  the  bedroom 
doors  I  " 

He  saw  Anne's  glance  directed  to  the  clock,  and 
pulled  out  his  watch.  "You  want  to  be  off?"  he 
asked,  without  any  reproach  in  his  voice.  "I  hope  I 
haven't  bored  you  by  my  autobiography?  I  fear  I 
have  been  rather  egotistical,  but  the  case  seemed  to 
require  it.  Shall  I  order  the  car  ?  " 

"Are  you  coming  to  the  station?" 

"If  I  may.    But  you  want  to  shop  ?  " 

"It  isn't  necessary.  No;  really  it  is  not  necessary. 
I  think  if  the  car  came  in  half-an-hour  that  would  give 
me  plenty  of  time  for  the  train." 

"I  wish  you  were  stopping,"  he  said,  ringing  the 
bell. 

When  the  servant  had  answered  the  summons  and 
retired,  Anne  began  her  reply.  She  did  not  raise  her 
eyes  to  her  husband,  who  still  stood  with  his  back  to 
the  mantelpiece,  facing  her;  but  she  sat  looking  over 
the  round  of  her  muff  where  it  reposed  on  her  lap, 
her  head  a  little  declined,  her  hands  motionless  in  the 
muff.  "I  think  you  have  good  reason  to  be  proud  of 
yourself,"  she  said  slowly.  "It  is  a  great  thing  you 
have  done.  I  can  hardly  believe  you  are  the  same 


THE    UNEXPECTED  185 

man.  Indeed,  so  great  is  the  change,  I  cannot  really 
get  my  thoughts  into  order.  You  have  taken  me  by 
surprise.  You  must  let  me  tell  you  some  other  day 
all  I  think  about  this  matter.  For  the  present,  I  want 
to  speak,  without  hurting  your  feelings,  about  some- 
thing else.  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  my  feelings 
towards  grandmamma.  You  can  imagine  what  it 
was  to  me,  when  I  found  myself  alone  and  rather 
deserted,  to  discover  an  understanding  and  a  faithful 
companion  in  that  little  lady.  She  has  laid  me  under 
a  great  obligation.  Indeed,  before  my  marriage  she 
was  my  most  intimate  companion,  for  during  my 
childhood  I  was  with  her  a  great  deal  oftener  than  I 
was  with  my  mother.  After  my  marriage,  she  became 
my  comfort.  Well,  she  is  old  now;  she  is  far  too 
fragile  to  make  journeys;  she  wishes  to  end  her  days 
in  our  cottage.  My  place,  I  feel,  is  at  the  side  of  this 
old  and  faithful  friend.  I  cannot  desert  her.  I  hope 
I  have  not  pained  you  by  what  I  have  said.  I  hope 
you  understand  my  feelings." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face.  "Of  course  I  am 
sorry  that  you  do  not  come  to  me  at  once,"  he  replied. 
"I  don't  conceal  from  you  the — well,  the  feeling  of 
expectation  with  which  I  have  been  looking  forward 
to  this  meeting.  Ever  since  I  took  myself  in  hand,  I 
have  had  you  for  the  goal.  A  school-boy  going  home 
for  the  holidays  could  not  be  more  excited  than  I  have 
been  about  meeting  you.  And  a  school-boy,  returning 
to  find  his  home  shuttered  and  deserted,  could  hardly 
be  more  depressed  than  I  am  by  this — disappoint- 
ment." 


i86  THE   CAGE 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  answered  in  a  low  voice,  feeling 
cold  and  desolate. 

"I  had  hoped,"  he  said,  "that  you  would  be  glad  of 
the  change  I  have  made;  more  glad  than  an  expres- 
sion of  congratulation ;  so  glad,  in  fact,  that  you 
would  forget  and  forgive  all  the  past,  and  begin  our 
life  again  with  real  pleasure  and  delight." 

She  found  herself  charged  with  a  crime  which  hurl; 
her,  the  crime  of  discouraging  reformation  and  de- 
pressing a  pure  ardour.  Her  position  pained  her  in 
a  dreadful  manner.  She  could  not  embrace  with  joy 
this  penitent  husband  without  spiritual  infidelity. 
The  unsanctioned  and  unuttered  affection  of  her  heart 
was  a  pure  and  holy  love  to  which  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  play  the  courtesan.  The  thing  called  Duty 
might  have  moved  her  if  the  new  love  had  not  been 
so  pure  and  sacred.  So  pure  and  sacred  was  this  love 
that  she  would  have  degraded  her  soul  by  accepting 
the  embrace  of  Duty.  And  yet,  to  stand  loyal  to  the 
highest  feelings  of  her  soul  meant  to  endanger  this 
man's  difficult  battle  with  the  forces  of  evil.  She 
became  conscious  of  responsibility. 

"You  are  a  fair  and  just  man,"  she  said  quietly. 
"Consider  my  position  from  my  point  of  view.  We 
are  husband  and  wife  only  in  name;  our  lives  have 
been  as  separate  and  distant  as  those  of  strangers. 
It  is  not  easy  to  pick  up  fallen  threads.  We  cannot 
go  back  at  a  moment's  notice  to  old  feelings  and 
revive  old  intimacies.  There  has  got  to  be  some 
bridge-building  first." 

Before  she  realized  what  had   happened,   he  was 


THE    UNEXPECTED  187 

kneeling  at  her  side.  His  face  came  suddenly  so  near 
to  her  that  she  turned  white,  and  could  not  repress 
the  natural  instinct  to  lean  back  from  him.  The 
pressure  of  his  hands  upon  her  arms  rilled  her  with 
terror. 

"Let  us  begin  building  that  bridge  now,"  he  said 
in  a  soft  voice.  "My  dearest  love,  you  are  all  the 
world  to  me.  It  will  be  easy  for  us  to  throw  that 
bridge  over  the  years  of  our  misunderstanding.  I 
know  what  you  feel.  It  is  perfectly  rational  and  fair. 
You  think  my  reformation  may  not  continue.  You 
fear  I  may  relapse.  You  are  quite  justified.  But  I 
promise,  with  your  help,  that  will  never  happen. 
Never,  Anne;  I  swear  it.  You  may  trust  me  now. 
I  am  a  changed  man.  My  whole  character  is  altered. 
I  don't  profess  to  be  religious;  but  I've  discovered 
the  convenience  and  the  satisfaction  of  being  on  the 
right  road.  With  you  for  my  companion  I  shall  never 
want  to  get  on  the  wrong  road  again.  You  don't 
know  what  you  mean  to  me.  When  I  was  trying  to 
get  fit,  when  I  was  trying  to  break  bad  habits,  it  was 
in  order  to  show  myself  to  you.  I  had  spoken  of  you 
to  Mrs.  Davidson.  She  made  me  feel  how  badly  I 
had  done  my  duty  to  you;  how  splendidly  you  had 
suffered  my  faults  and  failings.  She  compared  you 
with  the  women  who  play  even  good  husbands  false, 
and  showed  me  that  I  had  wronged  an  angel.  This 
idea  turned  and  turned  in  my  mind.  You  became 
a  constant  thought  to  me.  I  was  always  building  up 
old  memories  about  you,  seeing  you  again,  painting 
your  picture,  remembering  the  tone  of  your  voice, 


1 88  THE   CAGE 

recalling  your  quiet  manner  and  the  gentle  look  in 
your  eyes.  I  promise  you,  Anne,  I  should  have  failed 
a  dozen  times  but  for  this  thought  of  you — the  thought 
of  wanting  to  '  show  off  '  before  the  woman  I  had  been 
such  a  precious  fool  to  neglect.  And  when  I  saw  you 
this  morning,  the  feeling  of  wanting  to  show  off  was 
redoubled.  You  looked  so  fine,  and  good,  and  noble. 
And  now,  here  in  our  house,  you  look  so  beautiful, 
and  the  old  spell  of  your  personality  is  so  complete 
over  me,  that  I  don't  want  to  '  show  off  '  any  longer. 
I  want  to  make  you  love  me.  I  want  to  possess  you." 

The  pressure  of  the  strong  hands  on  her  arms  in- 
creased, but  she  was  too  dazed  to  notice  how  the  hands 
trembled  and  how  the  eyes  straining  towards  her  were 
moist  with  tears. 

"If  I  thought  that  I  could  not  revive  your  love,"  he 
said  earnestly  and  vigorously,  "I  would  destroy  my- 
self. You  are  everything  that  life  holds  for  me. 
Nothing  is  worth  a  grain  of  sand  to  me  without  you. 
I  had  looked  forward  to  this  meeting  with  joy,  but  the 
reality  of  you  exceeds  my  dreams.  You  are  beautiful 
beyond  words.  I  cannot  say  what  your  enchantment 
is  to  me.  All  I  know  is  that  I  love  you  now  as  I  never 
loved  you  before.  And  my  love  is  so  great  that  I  am 
positive  I  can  build  that  bridge.  You  have  only  got 
to  let  me  try,  you  have  only  got  to  tell  me  to  begin, 
and  I  will  throw  such  a  bridge  over  our  separation 
that  you  will  run  to  greet  me  with  open  arms."  He 
bent  his  head  and  kissed  the  hand  that  had  been 
unconsciously  raised  to  hold  him  back,  and  which 
now  lay  cold  as  death  on  her  muff.  "I  won't  say  any 


THE    UNEXPECTED  189 

more  now,"  he  said,  getting  up.  "But  I  had  to  say 
what  I  have  said.  I  hope  I  haven't  made  the  first  step 
too  boldly.  I  see  and  know  what  you  mean.  My 
behaviour  in  the  past  has  half  killed  your  love  for  me. 
I  must  prove  myself  worthy  before  it  revives.  Yes, 
I  know,  I  understand.  I  foolishly  thought  that  it 
would  revive  at  once;  I  didn't  realize  that  deep 
natures  feel  these  things  more  than  others.  I'm  rather 
glad  you  are  like  this.  In  spite  of  my  disappointment, 
I  can  be  glad.  It  would  have  been  too  easy  if  I  had 
won  everything  at  once.  It  will  make  me  a  stronger 
man  to  wait  and  win  you.  I  will  set  myself  to  that 
end.  You  are  the  purest  and  best  perfectly  beautiful 
woman  I  have  ever  known.  It  is  right  that  it  should 
take  a  man  to  win  you." 

He  drove  with  her  to  the  station,  and  on  that 
journey  they  entered  into  their  pact.  He  was  to  write 
to  her  and  wait  till  she  summoned  him.  She  was  to 
think  over  this  new  matter,  and  write  to  him  when  her 
conclusion  was  reached.  In  the  meantime  she  was  to 
devote  herself  to  Mrs.  Dobson. 

As  they  walked  up  the  platform  they  passed  a  grey- 
haired  and  handsome  man  standing  at  the  open  door 
of  a  carriage,  with  newspapers  under  his  arm  and  an 
unlighted  cigar  between  his  lips.  He  wore  a  billy- 
cock hat  and  a  heavy  grey  ulster,  with  a  white  muffler 
round  his  throat.  Paton  noticed  him,  and  saw  how 
he  stared  admiringly  at  Anne.  "We  have  just  passed 
Lord  Arthur  Gorham,"  he  said;  "one  of  the  bright 
stars  of  English  aristocracy ;  he  began  his  youth  by  a 
forgery  which  landed  him  in  penal  servitude;  then  he 


igo  THE   CAGE 

got  mixed  up  in  a  card  scandal ;  then  his  wife  divorced 
him;  and  now  he's  living  with  a  couple  of  religious 
aunts,  and  going  in  for  spiritualism  !  I  don't  suppose 
you  ever  met  him  or  heard  his  story.  It  makes  me 
grateful,  when  I  think  of  a  man  like  that.  I  might 
so  easily  have  been  the  same." 

He  saw  her  comfortably  placed  in  the  train,  and 
because  it  was  turning  cold  sent  the  footman  back  to 
the  car  for  a  fur  rug.  Then  he  bent  over  her  and 
said — 

"I  shall  look  out  for  your  letters.  Be  as  kind  to  me 
as  you  can.  And  remember,  it  will  all  come  right." 

She  gave  him  her  hand. 

"  You  hope  it  will  all  come  right  ?  "  he  asked  in  a 
low  voice. 

"Yes,"  she  replied.    "I  hope  it  will  all  come  right." 

He  smiled  and  bent  nearer  to  her.  "God  bless  you, 
Anne,"  he  whisperedj  and  left  her. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

A  FALLING  TIDE 

OF  all  cheats  and  disappointments  none"  is  so  heart- 
breaking as  the  mirage.  The  desert  is  terrible,  the 
phantasm  of  succour  makes  it  hell.  Anne  felt  that 
she  had  been  mocked.  If  there  were  tears  in  her 
heart,  there  was  laughter  in  her  ears.  Destiny  had 
laid  a  trap  for  her,  she  had  fallen  into  it ;  the  universe 
laughed  at  her  blunder. 

She  had  seen  in  the  sky  the  towers,  the  roofs,  and 
the  hanging  gardens  of  freedom;  within  that  city 
was  the  promise  of  love;  the  desert  where  she 
journeyed  lost  its  melancholy  at  sight  of  this  pro- 
spect; she  pressed  forward;  she  was  close  to  the 
gates;  the  city  suddenly  dissolved  and  vanished. 
Nothing  was  left  but  the  desert  and  night.  As  the 
train  moved  through  the  twilight,  leaving  suburbs 
and  blackened  fields  behind,  emerging  more  and 
more  into  flat  country  where  alders  leaned  across 
narrow  brooks  and  sunset  settled  over  distant  woods 
reflecting  itself  in  pools  of  water  and  the  windows 
of  her  railway  carriage,  Anne  faced  without  despair 
but  without  acquiescence  the  discipline  of  necessity, 
thp  ruling  of  fate,  which  meant  for  her  the  sacrifice 
of  friendship,  the  death  of  love. 

191 


192  THE   CAGE 

She  did  not  think  of  the  return  to  Paton.  She 
thought  of  the  separation  from  Napier.  It  was  not 
the  desert  which  frightened  her,  but  the  mirage 
which  wounded  her. 

She  was  conscious  of  resentment.  It  must  not  be 
supposed  that  the  altercation  with  Mr.  Aldrich  had 
left  no  impression  on  her  mind.  That  violent  dis- 
turbance of  her  spiritual  life  had  been  no  good  pre- 
paration for  a  moral  crisis.  She  was  thrown  upon 
herself.  To  a  mind  rendered  mutinous  by  authority 
resignation  is  not  easy.  Anne  had  found  herself 
unable  to  accept  the  religion  which  the  priest  laid 
down  for  her;  now,  in  the  turmoil  of  her  emotions, 
she  was  inclined  to  conduct  this  crisis  in  her  destiny 
without  reference  to  any  religion  at  all.  A  slow 
indignation,  a  gradual  disgust  worked  in  her  wounded 
mind.  Afterwards  came  despair. 

It  had  long  been  dark  when  the  train  arrived  at  the 
station.  Napier  came  quickly  towards  her  out  of  the 
shadows  of  waiting  people.  She  saw  by  the  flicker- 
ing gas-lamps  that  something  had  occurred  to  distress 
him.  At  first,  she  thought  it  was  the  sight  of  the 
fur  rug  which  she  was  dragging  from  the  carriage; 
it  told  of  a  thoughtfulness  which  would  be  disagree- 
able to  his  feelings.  But  he  took  the  rug  from  her 
without  appearing  to  notice  it.  He  told  her  his  bad 
news  in  a  sentence.  The  cab-driver  had  just  stopped 
him  as  he  entered  the  station,  saying  that  a  visitor 
to  the  hotel  at  Borhaven  was  arriving  by  this  train, 
and  that  the  proprietor  hoped  Mrs.  Paton  would  allow 


A   FALLING   TIDE  rig3 

him  to  share  the  cab — a  common  civility  in  that 
neighbourhood.  "We  shall  not  be  able  to  talk,"  he 
concluded. 

They  passed  through  the  booking-office  into  the 
yard.  The  cab  was  standing  waiting  for  them  at 
the  door.  It  was  an  old-fashioned  brougham  with  a 
luggage-basket  on  the  roof.  The  cabman  repeated 
to  Anne  the  tale  she  had  already  heard  from  Napier. 
She  entered  the  brougham,  Napier  followed,  and  the 
door  was  closed. 

"Well?"  he  said,  and  turned  to  her. 

"There  has  been  a  change,"  she  answered,  in  a 
steady  voice.  "I  found  the  unexpected.  He  has 
altered.  He  has  reformed." 

Napier  said  nothing. 

"The  surprise  has  disorganized  my  ideas,"  she 
said  presently.  "It  is  difficult  to  think." 

"Do  you  mean,"  he  asked  slowly,  "that  you  are 
going  back  ?  " 

"He  wishes  it." 

The  cabman  opened  the  door.  A  porter  lifted  a 
couple  of  bags  on  to  the  roof  of  the  cab.  A  man  in 
a  dark  ulster,  with  a  white  muffler  round  his  throat, 
came  to  the  door  of  the  carriage.  "I  fear  I  am  an 
intruder,"  he  said  politely;  "I  hope  you  will  forgive 
me." 

Napier  caught  a  glimpse  in  the  darkness  of  grey 
hair,  and  made  to  get  off  the  seat  beside  Anne;  but 
the  newcomer  would  not  permit  this  courtesy.  He 
took  the  narrow  seat,  with  his  back  to  the  horse,  and 


194  THE    CAGE 

assured  Napier  that  he  was  perfectly  comfortable. 
He  hoped  that  the  delay  in  bringing  his  luggage  had 
not  vexed  them. 

The  cab  creaked  and  jolted  out  of  the  yard  and  was 
soon  on  the  main  road  leading  away  from  the  town 
towards  the  sea  and  Borhaven.  The  narrow  interior 
was  almost  totally  dark.  The  body  of  the  stranger 
blocked  out  what  little  light  struggled  from  the 
lamps  towards  the  glass  pane  behind  the  driver.  The 
windows  were  lowered,  and  the  fur  rug  was  spread 
over  the  knees  of  the  travellers.  They  spoke  about  the 
coldness  of  these  autumn  evenings  for  a  few  moments 
and  then  relapsed  into  silence.  The  stranger  leaned 
forward  in  his  seat,  looking  out  of  the  window. 
Napier  and  Anne  sat  far  back  in  the  shadows  of  the 
carriage. 

The  stranger  presently  leaned  back  in  his  seat, 
folded  his  arms,  and  appeared  to  settle  down  to  sleep. 
Napier  turned  his  head  to  Anne,  and  in  a  low  voice 
said,  "Do  you  believe  in  a  sudden  reformation?" 

Anne  was  conscious  of  a  slight  movement  on  the 
stranger's  part.  "I  have  no  experience,"  she  an- 
swered, in  a  voice  equally  low. 

"To  risk  the  future  on  such  a  change  is  dangerous." 

"One  is  entitled  to  ask  for  time." 

"Which  means  uncertainty." 

She  did  not  answer. 

The  cab  rumbled  on.  The  stranger  once  more 
leaned  forward  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 
Napier  returned  to  his  thoughts.  Anne  watched  the 
play  of  half-lights  on  the  profile  of  the  stranger's  face. 


A   FALLING   TIDE  195 

Presently  they  came  to  a  hill,  and  the  stranger  said 
he  would  walk.  He  opened  the  door,  and  stepped 
out  of  the  moving  cab.  For  one  moment,  as  he 
passed  the  carriage-lamp  they  both  saw  his  hand- 
some face — the  thin,  proud,  sorrowful  face  with  its 
iron-grey  moustache,  and  its  whitening  hair  above 
the  ears.  He  walked  forward  with  a  long  and  easy 
stride;  the  smell  of  a  cigarette  came  back  to  them  as 
he  passed  in  front  of  the  horse. 

"Anne,  you  must  be  careful  of  your  life,"  Napier 
said  quickly.  "I  can't  bear  to  think  of  your  happi- 
ness hanging  on  the  hazard  of  an  experiment.  The 
risk  is  terrible.  There  are  reformations  which  are 
merely  interludes.  Men  go  back.  It  is  a  truth  that 
the  last  state  is  worse  than  the  first.  Suppose  this 
change  should  be  momentary.  Think  of  yourself  in 
such  a  case !  What  a  life  for  you,  what  a  horror ! 
Never  to  be  certain,  always  to  be  expecting  the 
return.  And  yet "  He  stopped  speaking. 

"Yes,  that  is  the  problem,"  she  said.  "All  the 
arguments  are  on  one  side;  but " 

"All  the  wisdom,  all  the  common  sense,  all  the 
practical  sound  reasons  on  one  side,"  he  said  slowly; 
"and  on  the  other,  conscience." 

"Reason  on  the  side  of  happiness,  conscience  on 
the  side  of  pain." 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

This  action  of  grief  saved  her.  A  mothering  com- 
passion for  his  sorrow  took  possession  of  her  heart. 
It  left  no  room  for  self-pity.  She  was  conscious  of 
one  desire,  to  comfort  him. 

02 


196  THE   CAGE 

At  the  top  of  the  hill  the  stranger  re-entered  the 
cab.  He  spoke  about  the  fine  air  and  the  wide  view. 
The  walk  seemed  to  have  braced  his  energies;  he 
spoke  with  spirit,  and  appeared  to  be  well  pleased 
with  himself.  Napier  did  not  answer,  and  Anne 
found  herself  entering  into  conversation  with  this 
unknown  man.  They  talked  of  other  countries,  and 
of  the  various  scenery  of  the  world.  "But  of  all  the 
cities  I  have  visited,"  said  the  stranger,  as  they  were 
nearing  Borhaven,  "I  think  that  I  most  admire  Edin- 
burgh. I  expect  you  know  it.  Don't  you  agree  that 
there  is  some  charm  about  that  city  which  others 
miss,  even  the  oldest  and  those  situated  in  southern 
climates  ?  " 

"I  am  fond  of  Edinburgh,"  Anne  replied;  "it  is 
my  birthplace,  and  I  go  back  to  it  frequently.  Yes, 
it  is  charming  and  beautiful." 

Napier  remembered  suddenly  that  there  was  a  way 
across  the  fields  to  Creek  Cottage.  He  spoke  of  it 
hastily  to  Anne,  asked  her  if  she  were  willing  to 
walk,  and  at  the  next  minute  was  leaning  out  of  the 
window  to  stop  the  cabman. 

"You  do  not  live  in  Borhaven  then?"  inquired 
the  stranger. 

"A  little  way  out." 

The  cab  stopped  and  Napier  opened  the  door. 

"This  is  your  rug,  I  think,"  said  the  stranger. 

"Oh,  we  will  send  for  it  to-morrow,"  answered 
Napier. 

"Pray  make  use  of  it,"  said  Anne,  as  the  door 
closed. 


A   FALLING   TIDE  197 

The  cab  moved  on,  with  the  unknown  man  in  its 
dark  interior;  and  Napier  and  Anne  crossed  the 
road,  opened  a  gate,  and  found  their  way  to  the  field 
path. 

There  was  scarcely  a  star  to  be  seen,  and  the  wind 
blowing  lightly  from  the  east  was  sharply  cold. 
Very  little  light  hung  above  the  earth.  The  path  in 
front  of  them  was  only  a  blur. 

Anne  told  the  narrative  of  her  visit.  She  was 
kind  to  Paton's  reformation.  The  night  air  refreshed 
her;  she  spoke  courageously  of  her  duty.  She  was 
not  bitter,  and  made  reference  to  the  future  without 
any  note  of  despair.  The  sacrifice  was  made.  She 
thought  only  of  Napier.  Her  tale  lasted  till  they 
were  close  to  the  cottage,  the  light  of  whose  windows 
could  be  seen  through  the  surrounding  trees. 

Napier  did  not  once  interrupt  her.  Every  sentence 
was  a  hand  pushing  him  away  from  her.  As  he 
walked  at  her  side  he  was  conscious  of  banishment 
and  isolation. 

"What  would  you  think  if  I  tried  to  alter  your 
mind  ?  "  he  asked. 

"You  would  not  do  that." 

"No." 

"My  friend  helps  me,  not  hinders  me." 

"Your  friend  must  forsake  you.  Oh,  Anne!" — 
he  turned  and  laid  a  hand  lightly  upon  her  arm, 
stopping  in  the  midst  of  the  dark  fields — "I  must 
leave  you.  It  is  necessary  that  I  should  go  away." 

His  pain  melted  her.  She  turned  towards  him. 
There  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  They  stood  facing1 


198  THE   CAGE 

each  other  in  the  dark  fields  under  a  drifting  grey 
scud  of  night  clouds  with  the  cold  wind  passing 
between  them.  "It  is  difficult,"  she  said,  "to  say 
good-bye;  but  there  is  nothing  good  which  cannot 
be  obeyed." 

"In  going  back,"  He  said  quickly,  "you  are  obey- 
ing only  what  is  questionably  good." 

"I  am  thinking  now  of  parting  with  my  friend, 
who  is  good." 

"Tell  me  one  thing;  you  are  not  afraid  of  the 
future  ?  " 

"No,  I  am  not  afraid." 

"  Will  you  send  for  me  if  I  can  help  you  ?  * 

"There  will  be  no  need.     I  am  sure  of  myself." 

"You  know  that  I  would  do  anything?" 

"I  shall  have  always  sweet  thoughts  of  you." 

They  walked  on  in  silence. 

At  the  gate  of  the  cottage  she  turned  and  looked 
at  him.  All  the  memory  of  her  childhood  rose  in 
her  heart  and  became  tender  in  her  eyes. 

"It  is  no  use  saying  that  it  isn't  hard  to  wish  you 
good-bye.  I  wish  it  was  not  necessary." 

"What  shall  I  say  to  you  ?  " 

She  was  conscious  of  a  greater  nearness  on  his 
part.  His  face  seemed  to  come  close  to  hers.  She 
could  feel  his  breathing  on  her  cheek,  which  was  cold 
from  the  night  air. 

"Say  good-bye  to  me,"  she  answered,  and  put  out 
her  hand. 

He  saw  in  her  face  an  expression  which  reminded 
him  ever  after  of  Chopin's  Etude  which  describes 


A   FALLING   TIDE  1199 

the  desertion  of  George  Sand.    He  found  his  mind 
repeating  the  words — 

"Beauty  that  must  die; 
And  Joy  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Bidding  adieu." 

He  was  terribly  shaken  by  this  parting. 

"  I  have  just  enough  courage  left  to  say  that  wore! ; 
ho  more." 

In  another  moment  she  was  standing  alone  in  the 
darkness  and  the  wind  beside  the  open  gate. 

The  parting  was  over.  Now  that  it  was  accom- 
plished the  place  in  her  heart  held  by  sorrow  and 
resignation  was  violently  usurped  by  bitterness  and 
rebellion.  She  stood  alone  and  motionless  in  front 
of  the  cottage,  the  sighing  of  the  wind  in  the  trees 
and  the  distant  murmur  of  the  sea  making  one  moan 
of  affliction  and  bereavement  in  her  soul,  the  dark- 
ness of  night  covering  her  with  the  solitude  of  the 
tomb,  the  retreating  footsteps  of  her  lover  sounding 
a  knell  in  her  spirit.  She  had  given  up  her  life,  she 
had  sacrificed  her  happiness.  For  a  scruple  of 
honour,  for  the  sake  of  a  convention,  for  some  in- 
tangible and  inexpressible  idea,  she  had  thrown 
away  material  good  and  solid  peace.  No  angels 
came  and  ministered  to  her.  She  was  exalted  by  no 
martyr's  feeling  of  spiritual  satisfaction.  She  was 
accused  by  her  heart,  she  was  mocked  by  her  con- 
science. The  retreating  footsteps  of  her  lover  died 
away.  She  had  sent  him  from  her.  For  the  sub- 
stance she  had  given  the  shadow.  Alone  in  the 
darkness  she  realized  loneliness. 


200  THE   CAGE 

It  is  no  hyperbole  to  liken  this  intense  feeling  of 
isolation  which  possessed  and  overwhelmed  her  to  the 
agony  of  widowhood.  Love  of  the  most  sacred  and 
noble  character  had  married  her  to  Napier.  She  was 
his  wife  in  every  respect  which  makes  marriage  a 
divine  companionship.  His  going  widowed  her. 
She  saw  this  husband  of  her  heart,  this  spouse  of  her 
spirit,  struck  down  by  the  assassin  Duty.  She  her- 
self had  given  the  dagger.  He  was  dead.  Never 
again  would  her  eyes  behold  him,  her  hands  touch 
him,  her  ears  listen  to  his  voice.  The  grave  had 
opened  and  closed  above  him.  He  was  dead.  He 
was  beyond  recall.  Her  life  must  for  ever  be  empty 
of  him.  She  would  look,  and  he  would  not  be  there; 
call,  and  he  would  not  come;  speak,  and  he  would 
not  answer.  Does  death  destroy  so  effectually  as 
farewell  ? 

As  she  stood  there,  realizing  her  widowhood,  there 
came  from  the  house  the  sound  of  a  moving  bolt  and 
the  turning  of  a  key.  She  put  her  hand  to  the  rail 
of  the  gate.  The  door  opened;  a  flood  of  light 
streamed  into  the  darkness;  and  she  saw  her  grand- 
mother standing  there  with  a  lighted  candle  in  her 
hand. 

Napier  walked  on  tfirough  the  dark  night.  He  was 
conscious  of  some  unreasoning  injustice  in  human  life. 
An  ancient  bitterness  was  born  again  in  his  heart.  Fate, 
which  had  denied  him  the  love  of  father  and  mother, 
denied  him  now  the  love  of  a  wife.  It  was  one  more 
blow  from  destiny,  the  most  grievous,  the  most  cruel 


A   FALLING   TIDE  201 

and  unjust.  From  his  earliest  years  he  had  been 
conscious  of  the  part  played  by  injustice  in  the 
affairs  of  men.  The  privations  of  his  childhood  had 
made  him  acquainted  with  the  sufferings  endured  by 
little  children  in  the  slums  of  great  cities.  His  youth 
had  brought  home  to  him  the  pain  of  that  law  which 
visits  the  sins  of  the  fathers  upon  the  children.  His 
manhood  had  made  him  see  that  civilization  can  be 
cruel  to  the  weak,  tyrannous  to  the  just,  and  merci- 
less to  the  innocent.  He  now  learned  that  in  the 
intricacies  and  complexities  of  human  existence  the 
purest  love  may  become  a  sin. 

Where,  now,  were  his  principles?  Had  he  thrown 
them  away  from  him,  had  he  exorcised  conscience, 
had  he  broken  free  from  the  restraints  of  moral 
guidance  ?  That  would  have  been  more  than  a 
revolution  of  personality;  it  would  have  been  an 
apostasy  of  soul. 

Napier's  principles  existed.  For  the  rest  of 
humanity.  He  did  not  question  the  rule  of  con- 
science. He  thought  he  had  found  an  exception. 

And  he  accepted  his  destiny.  It  was  quite  clear  to 
him  that  he  must  go  from  Anne  for  ever.  He  could 
no  longer  remain  at  her  side.  He  could  no  longer 
hope  for  her  love.  He  never  questioned  this  neces- 
sity. It  was  as  clear  to  him  as  the  sun  in  a  cloud- 
less sky.  The  man  still  had  unclouded  notions  of 
honour.  But  the  spirit  in  which  he  accepted  the 
defeat  of  his  hopes  and  the  destruction  of  his  affec- 
tion was  not  heroic;  it  was  rebellious.  What  it 
would  grow  to  be  was  the  problem  of  his  life. 


202  THE   CAGE 

"To-morrow  I  will  sail  away,"  he  said  to  himself. 
And  he  added,  "The  more  it  blows,  the  better  I  shall 
be  pleased."  He  felt  the  hostility  of  nature. 

When  he  reached  the  quay,  an  old  boatman,  who 
was  standing  with  a  group  of  pipe-smoking  fisher- 
men under  the  lee  of  a  shed,  came  forward  to  meet 
him. 

This  was  Tricker,  who  looked  after  his  ship  in  his 
absence. 

"The  major's  been  asking  for  you,"  he  said.  "He 
told  me  to  tell  you  that  he'd  like  you  to  go  up  to 
breakfast  to-morrow  morning,  or  if  it  wasn't  too  late 
to  look  in  at  the  hotel  to-night." 

Napier  was  feeling  the  sense  of  the  sea.  He  saw 
the  anchored  boats,  whose  headlights  moved  gently 
in  the  darkness  swinging  slowly  round  to  the  river, 
their  sterns  to  the  sea. 

"Tide's  running  out,"  he  said. 

"Just  turned,"  said  Tricker.  "I  put  a  new  wick  in 
your  lamp,  the  old  one  wouldn't  turn  easy." 

Napier  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  quay.  At  the 
bottom  of  the  wooden  steps  his  dinghey  swung  and 
bumped  at  the  end  of  its  rope,  the  water  flopping 
over  the  stairs. 

He  gave  the  boatman  some  money. 

"What,  you  aren't  going  away  to-night?"  de- 
manded the  old  man. 

"I  think  so.     It's  a  nice  breeze." 

"Why,  I  thought  you  were  here  for  another  spell." 

"I  want  to  go  South  for  a  few  weeks." 

*•' Shall  I  lend  you  a  hand?" 


A   FALLING   TIDE  203 

"No,  thanks;    I  can  manage." 
He  bade  the  man  good-bye,  and  began  to  go  down 
the  steps.     "What  shall   I   tell  the  major,   then?" 
asked  Tricker,  stooping  down  with  bent  knees,  his 
face  leaned  over  the  steps. 

"Tell  him,  I  couldn't  resist  a  nice  breeze  and  a 
falling  tide." 

A  few  minutes  after,  Napier  was  unlacing  his  sail- 
cover,  and  the  port  and  starboard  lights  were  shin- 
ing in  the  rigging.  The  fishermen  on  the  quay 
spoke  about  him  as  they  listened  to  the  clicking  of 
his  winch.  That  noise  filled  the  quiet  of  the  dark 
night.  The  work  of  the  lonely  man  was  the  only 
sound  in  the  river,  except  the  noise  of  wind  and  tide. 

Just  as  the  Sand  Wasp  began  to  glide  away  under 
her  jib,  and  Napier,  clear  of  the  harbour,  was  pre- 
paring to  hoist  his  mainsail,  the  door  of  the  hotel 
opened  and  two  men  smoking  cigars  strolled  into  the 
garden.  One  of  them  was  a  little  unsteady  on  his 
legs;  he  was  laughing.  From  the  sea  came  to  them 
the  musical  sound  of  a  hoisting  gaff,  the  rattle  of 
patent  sheaves  and  the  creaking  of  pulleys. 

"Some  fellow  putting  to  sea,"  said  Lauden.  "We 
shall  see  his  lights  in  a  moment." 

They  stood  smoking  in  the  dark  garden  with  their 
backs  to  the  hotel,  Lauden  swaying  on  his  feet  and 
breathing  heavily. 

Then  a  white  light  glowed  in  the  distant  darkness, 
a  black  shadow  drifted  into  the  general  greyness,  and 
a  red  lamp  shone  close  to  the  water. 

"There  it  goes,"  said  Lauden,  with  a  laugh;   "out 


204  THE   CAGE 

to  sea  on  a  falling  tide !  One  of  our  fishermen  : 
one  of  the  sons  of  the  North  Sea.  We  shall  have 
soles  for  breakfast,  Arthur  !  " 

The  other  looked  towards  the  harbour.  His  eyes 
seemed  to  consult  the  lights. 

After  a  moment  he  said,  "Has  he  come  back,  I 
wonder  ?  " 

"He'll  come  up  here  when  he  does,"  replied  Lau- 
den;  "but  I  don't  expect  we  shall  see  him  till  to- 
morrow. The  lady  is  a  great  attraction.  And 
neither  of  them  cares  a  biscuit  for  conventions.  They 
keep  rum  hours." 

The  other  turned  towards  the  hotel.  "How  extra- 
ordinary," he  exclaimed,  as  they  walked  away,  "how 
extraordinary  !  What  a  fatality  in  things  !  I  drove 
out  from  the  station  with  my  own  son." 

Neither  of  the  two  men  was  inclined  for  bed. 
They  sat  under  the  verandah  of  the  hotel,  smoking 
in  deck-chairs  with  their  faces  to  the  sea.  Arthur 
Gorham  wore  his  ulster,  Lauden  was  in  his  shabby 
thin  suit. 

The  major  crossed  his  legs  and  began  to  smoke. 
The  other  sat  watching  the  red  lamp  at  sea. 

"Good  Lord,  Arthur,"  exclaimed  Lauden,  after  a 
pause,  "what  a  mystery  the  whole  thing  is!  Not 
merely  this  affair  of  yours,  but  life.  Who  would 
have  thought  five-and-twenty  years  ago,  when  we 
were  inspecting  stables  together  and  playing  polo 
and  backing  wrong  'uns,  that  we  should  one  day  be 
silting,  as  grey-haired  old  buffers,  under  the  verandah 
of  a  little  inn,  talking  about  your  son  I  Where  are 


A   FALLING   TIDE  205 

all  the  others  of  that  time?  The  regiment  is  still  in 
existence;  the  same  kit  is  being  worn  by  youngsters; 
the  same  plate  makes  its  appearance  on  guest-nights; 
the  same  silly  parlour-tricks  are  being  played  in  the 
ante-room.  Some  boy  from  Sandhurst  is  now  an- 
swering the  sentry's  challenge  with  '  Visiting 
Rounds,'  and  the  scabbard  of  his  sword  is  scraping 
the  gravel  of  the  barrack  square.  While  we  sit  here 
he  is  telling  the  sentry  to  give  over  his  orders,  and 
under  the  stars,  wrapped  in  his  cloak  and  with  his 
carbine  at  the  shoulder,  the  sentry  is  answering,  '  To 
take  charge  of  this  post,'  et  cetera!  The  horses  are 
asleep  in  their  stalls ;  the  men  are  snoring  overhead ; 
the  canteen  is  closed;  a  baby  is  crying  in  the  married 
quarters;  a  couple  of  troopers  are  steadying  them- 
selves to  enter  the  barracks  gate  and  pass  the  sergeant 
of  the  guard.  It  is  all  as  it  was  five-and-twenty  years 
ago.  The  regiment  which  was  us,  has  become  other 
people.  Its  motto,  its  colours,  its  uniform,  its  tradi- 
tions belong  to  men  we  know  nothing  about.  One 
generation  has  passed.  It  has  fallen  out.  We  should 
be  challenged  at  the  barrack  gate." 

"I  haven't  got  the  same  affection  for  the  regiment 
as  you  have,"  answered  Gorham  slowly.  "I  suppose 
I  left  too  young.  You  had  got  your  troop  before  I 
joined.  You  wore  the  Egyptian  medal  before  I  could 
boast  a  moustache.  But  the  older  one  grows,  the 
more  one  is  inclined  to  look  back;  and  this  meeting 
with  you  makes  me  look  back  to  the  old  days  with 
an  interest  which  I  quite  thought  I  had  lost  long 
ago.  I  remember  men  I  had  forgotten;  duties  I 


206  THE   CAGE 

had  ceased  to  think  about;  as  you  were  speaking 
just  now,  I  got  the  smell  of  the  stables  in  my  nostrils 
and  the  odour  of  saddle-paste  and  white-of-egg  on 
Saturday  mornings  I  " 

There  are  few  forms  of  reminiscence  more  intimate 
and  engaging  than  the  recollections  of  old  soldiers. 
The  common  life,  the  common  taste  which  brought 
them  into  the  army,  and  the  common  duties  and 
friendships  of  regimental  existence,  render  this 
reminiscence  a  lasting  and  even  an  increasing 
pleasure.  The  life  of  a  soldier,  too,  tends  to  check 
development  of  individuality,  so  that  while  two  men 
who  were  at  school  and  college  together  may  meet  in 
after  years  as  complete  strangers,  transformed  by 
their  professions  into  different  individuals,  two  men 
who  have  soldiered  together  always  meet  on  the  old 
ground  of  their  ancient  camaraderie  with  a  perfect 
and  complete  understanding  between  them. 

To  Major  Lauden,  who  had  once  ridden  in  gold 
lace,  scattering  a  fortune  to  the  winds  and  entangling 
himself  in  the  coils  of  innumerable  romances,  and 
who  was  now  condemned  to  spend  his  few  shillings 
in  the  comparative  solitude  of  a  fishing  village,  this 
meeting  with  an  old  comrade  in  arms  was  an  event 
of  the  most  delightful  character.  He  magnified  the 
soldiering  of  Arthur  Gorham,  and  would  not  let  his 
reason  tell  him  that  this  old  comrade,  this  companion 
of  his  roystering  life,  had  soldiered  with  him  for 
only  a  matter  of  four  or  five  years.  He  persuaded 
himself  that  his  own  long  service  had  been  accom- 
panied step  by  step,  and  from  its  beginning  to  its 


A   FALLING   TIDE  207 

end,  by  his  present  companion.  He  spoke  of  men 
in  the  regiment  Gorham  had  never  known,  and  would 
not  listen  when  Lord  Arthur  protested  his  ignorance. 
He  recalled  adventures  in  Egypt  and  India,  before 
Lord  Arthur  had  joined,  and  associated  him  with 
events  which  had  happened  long  after  he  had  left. 
And  all  through  his  rattling  gossip  and  his  hoarse 
laughter  was  the  sense  of  tears — a  sadness  for  days 
that  were  dead,  a  mourning  for  friends  who  were 
departed,  a  grief  for  glory  that  had  vanished.  Some- 
times, too,  in  this  chronicle  of  the  past,  flashed 
something  of  the  old  soldier's  present — his  hatred  of 
priestcraft,  his  indignation  with  what  he  regarded  as 
superstition,  his  challenging  devotion  to  a  wild 
scheme  of  anarchy  which  he  called  Socialism.  At 
one  moment  he  was  laughing  at  some  spree  on  a 
guest-night;  at  the  next  he  was  shaking  his  fist  at 
priest  and  society. 

They  sat  talking  until  it  was  late,  and  when  they 
rose  to  go  indoors,  the  red  light  at  sea  had  dwindled 
out  of  vision. 

Arthur  Gorham  looked  down  to  the  harbour  as 
they  moved  towards  the  door.  "Which  is  his  boat, 
Lauden  ?  " 

"That  one,  I  think.  Follow  the  line  of  this  post; 
the  light  five  inches  or  so,  on  the  right  of  it.  I 
expect  he's  in  bed  by  now.  Got  back  too  late  to  get 
my  message." 

In  the  morning,  looking  from  his  bedroom  window, 
Lauden  saw  that  Napier's  ship  was  not  in  the  har- 
bour. With  the  lather  on  his  face  he  opened  the 


208  THE    CAGE 

door  and  called  to  a  servant.  "Go  and  find  where 
Mr.  Napier  has  gone,"  he  said,  "and  bring  me  back 
word.  Ask  Tricker  or  somebody  on  the  quay." 

When  he  heard  that  Napier  had  departed  the  poor 
major  was  filled  with  the  most  angry  grief.  He 
pulled  on  his  trousers,  and  with  dangling  braces 
and  the  jacket  of  his  pyjamas  gaping  open,  shuffled 
down  the  corridor  of  the  hotel  in  faded  slippers,  to 
break  the  news  to  Gorham. 

He  found  Lord  Arthur  still  in  bed,  reading  a  book. 
The  hot-water  can  stood  in  the  bath  covered  by  a 
couple  of  towels.  A  tray  with  tea  rested  on  a  little 
table  at  the  bedside. 

Lauden  broke  the  news. 

Gorham  closed  his  book.  "And  yesterday  I  sat 
in  the  same  carriage  with  him  for  an  hourl  Why 
has  he  gone  away  ?  " 

Lauden  told  all  there  was  to  tell,  and  suggested 
that  after  breakfast  they  should  walk  over  to  Creek 
Cottage  and  see  Anne  Paton.  They  arrived  there 
just  before  eleven  o'clock,  Trooper  entering  the 
garden,  and  refusing  to  go  out  when  the  major  com- 
manded him  to  do  so  with  a  smiling  face. 

Lauden  exclaimed  at  Anne's  appearance  directly 
she  entered  the  drawing-room,  before  he  had  made 
the  usual  apology  for  Trooper,  and  before  he  had 
presented  Lord  Arthur.  "Why,  Mrs.  Paton,  a  day 
in  London  has  played  old  Harry  with  you  I  "  he 
said. 

She  rallied  her  spirits,  but  the  red-faced  major, 
with  an  old-fashioned  gallantry,  insisted  on  express' 


A   FALLING   TIDE  209 

ing  his  anxiety  for  her  health  all  through  the  inter- 
view. 

She  showed  no  emotion  when  she  learned  that 
Napier  had  departed.  "I  knew  he  was  going,"  she 
said.  The  major  inquired  if  she  knew  the  wanderer's 
port  of  destination.  She  shook  her  head.  "I  don't 
think  he  quite  knows  himself,"  she  answered. 

"That  means  no  letter-writing,"  laughed  the  major. 
"What  an  excellent  plan  for  avoiding  one's 
creditors !  " 

"You  don't  know,"  inquired  Lord  Arthur,  "if  Mr. 
Napier  is  returning  to  Borhaven?" 

"No,"  she  answered. 

Just  before  they  rose  to  go  Lord  Arthur  said  to 
Anne,  "We  were  talking  of  Edinburgh  last  night  in 
the  cab ;  and  I  discover  that  you  are  the  daughter  of 
a  man  I  knew  there  and  very  much  respected." 

Her  eyes  brightened  a  little.  "Oh,  you  knew  my 
father  ?  "  she  asked,  with  affectionate  pride. 

"Yes,  I  knew  him.  He  was  kind  enough  to  do 
me  a  considerable  service." 

"I  am  glad,"  she  said  simply. 

"Ah  I "  cried  the  major,  "the  mention  of  your 
father's  name  has  restored  your  appearance  to  its 
normal  and  most  charming  good  health.  I  don't  like 
to  see  you  looking  run-down." 

Some  idea  remained  in  Anne's  mind  that  she  had 
heard  the  name  of  Lord  Arthur  Gorham,  but  she 
could  not  remember  when  and  where.  The  effect 
produced  upon  her  by  his  likeness  to  Napier  was 
too  paramount  for  any  other  consideration.  She  felt 


210  THE   CAGE 

convinced  that  she  had  spoken  with  her  lover's 
father. 

The  two  men  walked  back  to  Borhaven,  discussing 
the  disaster  which  had  overtaken  their  plans.  To 
Lord  Arthur  the  disappointment  was  keen  and  dis- 
heartening. He  had  tried  many  times  in  recent  years 
to  discover  the  whereabouts  of  his  son.  Ever  since 
he  yielded  himself  to  the  dangerous  occupation  of 
spiritualism  he  had  felt  an  irresistible  desire  to  meet 
his  son  and  square  accounts.  Messages  from  the 
dead  mother  had  come  to  him  from  astute  mediums; 
he  even  believed  that  he  had  heard  her  voice.  He 
walked  about  the  world  believing  that  he  was  accom- 
panied by  invisible  spirits.  To  obtain  his  son's  for- 
giveness and  to  tell  him  of  the  dead  mother  now  in 
spiritland,  was  a  sentimental  passion  with  the  irre- 
sponsible and  still  selfish  man. 

"I  will  wait  till  to-morrow,"  he  said,  "and  then,  if 
we  have  got  no  news  of  him,  I  will  return  to  London. 
You  can  telegraph  to  me  if  he  returns.  I  will  leave 
you  a  letter  to  give  to  him  in  case  he  should  come 
when  I  am  away." 

The  morrow  brought  no  news  of  Napier,  and  Lord 
Arthur  placed  a  sealed  envelope  in  the  hands  of 
Lauden  addressed  to  Napier,  and  marked  on  the  out- 
side:  "To  be  returned  to  Lord  Arthur  Gorham  in 
the  event  of  Major  Lauden's  death."  Lauden  took 
it,  and  placed  it  carefully  in  an  ancient  letter-case, 
which  balanced  on  the  right  side  of  his  coat  the  bulge 
made  by  his  handkerchief  on  the  left.  "It  isn't  a 
cheerful  thing  to  carry  about,"  he  said;  "every  time 


A   FALLING   TIDE  *n 

I  see  it  I  shall  ask  myself  why  I  am  not  rdead;  but, 
Arthur,  it  shall  never  leave  me,  and  one  day  Napier 
shall  read  it." 

Lord  Arthur  returned  to  London.  All  the  pressing 
of  Lauden,  who  borrowed  five  pounds  from  him, 
could  not  persuade  him  to  remain  another  day.  He 
was  attending  a  seance  that  evening  at  which  he 
hoped  to  hear  the  voice  of  Napier's  mother. 

While  his  cab  carried  him  out  of  Borhaven,  Anne 
and  her  grandmother  were  reaching  something  like 
a  conclusion  to  the  difficulty  of  Anne's  situation. 
Ever  since  the  old  lady  greeted  the  poor  girl  on  her 
return  from  London,  she  had  been  filled  with  appre- 
hension. Ever  since  she  heard  the  story  and  knew 
that  Napier  had  departed,  she  had  set  her  brain  to 
discover  some  solution  of  the  problem.  And  now 
it  was  reached. 

"You  must  encourage  Richard  to  continue  in  this 
improvement,"  she  said;  "you  must  let  him  be  quite 
sure  that  you  are  glad  of  the  change  in  him ;  and 
you  must  hold  forth  to  him  the  prospect  of  a  return 
to  the  old  relations.  But  you  have  a  right  to  claim 
time.  His  reformation  must  not  depend  on  any 
sentimental  affection.  To  win  you,  it  must  be  self- 
reverent  and  strong.  Ask  for  a  year.  In  that  year 
your  mind  will  accustom  itself  to  its  duty.  What 
seems  now  repugnant  will  become  bearable.  A  year 
will  effect  much." 

So  Anne,  who  had  no  other  feeling  in  her  heart 
except  an  overwhelming  sense  of  bereavement,  wrote 
to  Richard  Paton  in  this  strain. 

P  2 


212  THE   CAGE 

"Ah,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  lady,  embracing  Her, 
"if  my  life  was  only  spared  to  its  selfish  and  useless 
old  age  to  help  you,  it  was  a  thing  well  done.  Be- 
lieve me,  no  happiness,  no  rest,  could  ever  have  come 
to  you.  The  future  may  look  hard  to  you  now,  but 
one  day  you  will  be  glad  you  walked  to  meet  it  along 
a  straight  road." 


CHAPTER   XVII 

ON  THE   GROUND   OF   HONOUR 

ANNE  thought  that  her  conflict  was  decided. 

Her  sense  of  honour  had  determined  the  decision. 

For  the  opinion  of  the  world  she  cared  nothing, 
for  the  commands  of  clericalism  she  had  no  attention. 
Conscience  may  be  said  to  have  influenced  her  in  some 
subconscious  way  difficult  to  define,  but  the  real  power 
was  that  mysterious  mental  force  which  controls  con- 
duct and  gives  elevation  to  character,  a  sense  of 
honour.  There  is  a  subtle  difference  between  con- 
science and  a  sense  of  honour.  Conscience  is  some- 
thing from  without,  or  if  within,  imposed  from  with- 
out ;  it  is  not  ourself ;  it  whispers,  it  warns,  it  accuses ; 
in  the  presence  of  conscience  one  is  in  the  presence  of 
an  angel ;  conscience  is  superior  to  us ;  we  listen,  we 
bow,  we  submit;  to  reject  it  is  impious,  to  destroy  it 
is  ruin ;  conscience  is  religion ;  it  is  God. 

A  sense  of  honour  is  the  personality  itself.  It  con- 
trols conduct  because  it  is  conduct,  it  elevates  character 
because  it  is  character.  We  might  twist  a  phrase  of 
Goethe's  and  say  that  the  behaviour  of  a  man  of 
honour  is  a  mirror  in  which  he  sees  his  own  reflection. 

A  high  sense  of  honour  does  not  warn  against  vice, 

213 


ai4  THE   CAGE 

it  makes  vice  impossible;  it  does  not  reform,  it  is 
reformation  itself.  A  man  of  honour  does  not  keep 
himself  from  stealing;  he  could  not  steal.  He  does 
not  struggle  with  himself  to  conquer  temptations ;  he 
has  no  temptations.  It  is  not  more  impossible  for 
him  to  commit  murder,  deceive  a  neighbour,  destroy 
a  reputation,  brutalize  a  child,  or  forge  a  name,  than 
it  is  to  alter  the  beating  of  his  heart,  the  vibrations 
of  his  brain,  or  the  colour  of  his  blood.  The  sense  of 
honour  is  the  man  himself.  It  is  a  term  which  de- 
scribes a  character. 

It  is  better  perhaps  to  have  a  conscience  than  the 
sense  of  honour.  Conscience  is  progress ;  it  is  never 
satisfied;  it  is  aware  of  eternity.  A  sense  of  honour 
is  content  with  itself;  it  is  a  noble  synonym  for  self- 
satisfaction,  self-sufficiency.  Between  conscience  and 
the  sense  of  honour  there  is  the  same  difference  which 
divides  morality  from  religion.  The  Pharisee  in  the 
temple  represents  Honour;  the  poor  man  who  durst 
not  even  raise  his  eyes,  Conscience. 

Anne  rejected  Napier  because  her  sense  of  honour 
was  strong.  If  it  had  been  weaker  she  might  have 
kept  him. 

The  misguided  earnestness  of  an  honest  priest  had 
thrown  her  back  upon  this  sense  of  honour.  The 
religious  instinct  which  was  forming  gradually  in  her 
mind,  which  was  giving  breath  to  her  conscience  and 
significance  to  her  virtue,  suddenly  ceased  to  manifest 
in  her  character.  She  felt  herself  expelled.  At  the 
moment  when  she  was  growing  accustomed  to  the 
region  of  faith,  she  was  thrust  back  into  the  region  of 


ON  THE  GROUND  OF  HONOUR  215 

intellect;  doubts  which  have  no  meaning  for  faith, 
difficulties  which  have  no  perplexity  for  worship, 
scepticism  which  has  no  existence  for  love,  presented 
themselves  with  new  vigour  to  her  mind.  Repel  a 
soul,  and  the  brain  sets  itself  to  provide  consolation. 
Anne  was  driven  from  the  altar;  her  reason,  seeking 
to  heal  the  wound,  asked  how  she  could  ever  have 
gone  thither.  There  is  no  physician  for  wounded 
pride  like  the  reason.  It  would  not  be  true  to  say 
that  she  expunged  religion  from  her  heart;  but  she 
rejected  the  means  through  which  she  had  reached 
definitely  into  the  Infinite. 

If  she  was  conscious  of  any  loss,  any  bereavement 
of  sacramental  religion,  at  any  rate  she  felt  her  sense 
of  honour  sufficient  for  conduct.  She  met  the  crisis 
of  her  life  with  honour,  and  she  triumphed.  Religion 
could  claim  nothing  of  the  victory. 

But  temptation,  the  supreme  mimic,  the  arch  im- 
postor, the  prince  of  plagiarists,  sometimes  appears 
even  in  the  likeness  of  honour.  That  is  the  danger. 

Against  his  conscience,  Herod  sacrificed  the  prophet 
of  God;  but  he  kept  his  word  to  a  courtesan. 

There  are  such  things  as  debts  of  honour  and 
honourable  lies.  A  man  of  honour,  to  save  the  reputa- 
tion of  a  woman,  will  tell  a  lie  on  his  oath.  He  will 
call  God  to  witness  his  chivalry,  his  honour  and  his 
lie.  He  is  not  ashamed ;  he  is  exalted.  Perhaps  it  is 
lack  of  imagination  which  makes  a  man  summon  the 
eternal  God  to  witness  the  cunning  whereby  he  de- 
ceives the  world  concerning  the  true  character  of  a 
disreputable  woman.  There  are  men  of  honour,  aspir- 


216  THE   CAGE 

ing  to  nothing  high  and  descending  to  nothing  base, 
who  have  a  decalogue  in  which  Satan  himself  would 
suggest  no  improvements.  You  could  trust  your 
purse  to  a  man  of  honour,  but  not  the  upbringing  of 
your  child.  Religion  has  principles;  honour  has 
scruples. 

Temptation  came  to  Anne  in  the  guise  of  honour. 

A  week  had  passed  since  her  parting  with  Napier. 
There  was  sadness  in  her  heart,  perhaps  bitterness, 
but  no  question. 

She  submitted  to  necessity;  not  to  submit  was 
impossible  to  her  sense  of  honour. 

It  was  inconceivable  to  her  that  she  should  ever 
call  Napier  to  her  side. 

That  was  her  victory. 

But,  to  return  to  her  husband?  The  injunction  of 
honour  was  here  not  so  distinct.  Religion,  perhaps, 
would  have  been  more  definite.  Christianity,  it  is 
said,  meets  tragedy  with  tragedy. 

Anne  was  at  this  point  in  her  crisis — irrevocable 
rejection  of  Napier  and  distasteful  submission  to 
duty — when  the  temptation  came.  The  tempter  was 
Napier  himself. 

He  did  not  come  to  her,  that  would  have  been  in 
some  way  to  break  faith,  but  he  wrote  to  her,  which 
was  a  compromise  consistent  with  honour. 

This  was  the  letter — 

"I  have  thought  so  much  of  your  position  since  I 
last  saw  you.  There  is  nothing  else  left  for  me  to 
think  about.  The  result  of  my  thinking  has  brought 
me  to  one  definite  idea.  If  I  suggest  it  to  you  k  is 


ON  THE  GROUND  OF  HONOUR   217 

not  for  a  selfish  purpose;  it  is  because  I  am  anxious 
for  your  peace  of  mind.  You  will  believe  this  be- 
cause you  trust  me. 

"The  idea  is  this:  Can  it  ever  be  the  duty  of  a 
wife  to  return  to  the  husband  whom  she  has  ceased  to 
love,  the  husband  who  has  destroyed  in  her  by  his 
own  action  and  his  own  conduct  the  possibility  of 
love?  At  one  time  I  should  not  have  hesitated  to 
say  that  it  was  her  duty  to  return ;  but  now  I  am 
inclined  to  think  that  it  can  never  be  right,  in  any  cir- 
cumstances or  for  any  cause,  to  sacrifice  the  highest 
instincts  and  the  purest  feelings.  It  seems  to  me  that 
the  wife  has  a  right  to  say  that  such  a  submission  is 
not  an  obedience  but  a  profanation.  Marriage  without 
love  is  a  horrible  outrage  to  a  good  woman.  I  can 
conceive  of  scarcely  anything  more  revolting.  It  is 
so  dreadful  that  the  thought  has  begun  to  haunt 
me. 

"My  friendship  for  you  makes  me  write.  It  is  a 
true  proverb  that  says  absence  strengthened  friend- 
ship, where  the  last  recollections  were  kindly.  My 
friendship  is  so  strengthened  that  it  drives  me  to 
write.  Can  you  imagine  what  it  is  for  me  to  think 
of  the  possibility  that  you  may  make  this  sacrifice 
only  to  find  you  have  destroyed  self-respect,  and 
obey  duty  only  to  find  that  it  has  led  you  into  hell  ? 

"At  least  pause  and  think  well  before  you  take  this 
step.  Do  not  act  till  you  are  convinced  that  the  situa- 
tion would  be  bearable. 

"On  the  ground  of  religion,  I  can't  help  thinking 
that  a  wife  would  be  right  to  disown  a  union  that 


2i8  THE   CAGE 

violated  her  noblest  feelings.  I  am  not  thinking  of 
modern  religious  opinion,  but  of  the  original  spirit. 
The  current  idea  of  virtue  is  not  exalted.  Becky 
Sharp  said  it  was  easy  to  be  virtuous  on  ten  thousand 
a  year;  Christ  said  it  was  impossible.  Religion  at 
its  dawn  was  not  a  conformity,  but  a  rebellion.  The 
whole  spirit  was  a  denial  of  the  world's  standards,  a 
perception  that  the  highest  must  be  sought  at  whatever 
cost.  The  sacredest  family  ties  were  not  to  count. 

"I  only  say  this  that  you  may  not  think  I  have 
shifted  my  ground  entirely.  My  opinions  have 
changed,  but  my  principles  are  fixed. 

"The  question  whether  a  wife  can  ever  be  called 
upon  to  return  to  a  union  likely  to  destroy  her  peace 
of  mind,  to  embitter  her  nature  and  deject  her  rever- 
ence had  never  before  occurred  to  me.  Now  that  it 
has,  I  have  answered  it.  Will  you  answer  it,  defin- 
itely, before  you  act  ?  " 

This  was  the  letter;   this  was  the  temptation. 

It  had  been  written  as  honestly  as  the  clergyman's 
ruling  had  been  delivered.  Mr.  Aldrich  was  zealous 
for  God;  Napier  was  zealous  for  honour. 

With  what  restraint  Napier  had  written  the  reader 
may  guess;  Anne  knew.  He  was  not  writing  a  letter 
of  advice  to  a  sister,  he  was  appealing  with  the  force 
of  a  righteous  jealousy,  and  out  of  the  depths  of  a 
pure  love,  to  the  woman  he  adored.  But  honour  held 
the  pen. 

Anne  knew  by  the  knowledge  that  he  loved  her  how 
great  was  the  restraint  of  this  letter,  which  swept  her 
off  her  feet.  And  it  was  his  knowledge  that  she  loved 


ON  THE  GROUND  OF  HONOUR  219 

him  which  made  every  word  in  the  letter  a  temptation 
almost  impossible  of  resistance. 

Could  she  say  to  the  man  who  knew  that  she  loved 
him,  "I  am  going  back  to  be  the  wife  of  a  man  I  do 
not  love  "  ? 

Napier  had  appealed  to  her  on  the  ground  of 
honour. 

She  had  faced  before  the  terrible  sacrifice  of  this 
return,  but  now  for  the  first  time  the  tragedy  of  it 
was  presented  to  her  in  the  form  of  the  question, 
What  will  he  think  of  me? 

It  may  be  easy  for  a  noble  nature  to  accept  a  hard 
destiny,  but  it  is  difficult  for  a  pure  woman  to  abase 
herself  before  the  eyes  of  a  man  whose  respect  is  the 
breath  of  her  being. 

Rebellion  appeared  in  the  form  of  an  angel.  Her 
virtue  exceeded  the  virtue  of  the  Scribes  and  Pharisees. 
She  repeated  the  sentence.  "Becky  Sharp  said  it  was 
easy  to  be  virtuous  on  ten  thousand  a  year;  Christ 
said  it  was  impossible."  The  world's  estimate  of 
virtue  was  respectability;  those  who  would  bid  her 
return  to  duty  did  not  perceive  the  altitudes  of  virtue. 
The  height  of  heights  was  above  the  world. 

This  idea  justified  the  line  of  selfishness.  It  made 
What-I-want-to-do  What-I-ought-to-do. 

Anne  saw  that  to  refuse  a  renewal  of  the  hateful  union 
opened  the  gate  to  a  consummation  of  the  happy  union. 

On  ighteous  grounds,  the  highest  possible 
grounds,  she  could  say  to  her  husband,  "It  is  impos- 
sible. You  offer  me  horror,  self-abasement,  infamy. 
To  accept  would  be  dishonour.  I  should  sink  into 


220  THE   CAGE 

the  abyss  of  shame.  My  soul  would  perish.  I  should 
be  guilty  to  myself.  My  sin  would  be  a  sin  against 
light.  I  know  that  I  cannot  divorce  my  chastity  from 
my  feelings.  You  have  destroyed  love.  Our  union  is 
unthinkable." 

And  if  to  this  he  made  answer,  "You  would  be 
free;  very  well,  I  must  be  free  too" — he  would  be  on 
ground  that  the  law  justified. 

She  saw  once  more  the  opening  door  of  freedom. 

To  such  a  letter,  in  her  present  feelings,  only  one 
reply  was  possible.  She  did  not,  however,  write  her 
answer  that  day.  She  allowed  the  idea  to  lodge  in 
her  mind.  She  wanted  to  exhaust  it.  Her  answer, 
she  perceived  clearly,  would  decide  her  destiny. 

Her  communing  was  interrupted. 

On  the  following  morning,  when  she  entered  Mrs. 
Dobson's  bedroom,  she  found  her  grandmother  com- 
plaining of  a  sleepless  night  and  looking  wasted 
and  feverish.  Anxiety  for  this  most  dear  and  faithful 
friend  at  once  banished  from  Anne's  mind  her 
thoughts  of  self-preservation.  On  the  noble  face  of 
the  little  old  lady,  like  the  falling  dullness  of  twilight, 
lay  the  shadow  of  death. 

The  great  Silencer  hushed  the  voice  of  Anne's  sor- 
row and  rebuked  the  consequence  with  which  she  had 
invested  her  passions.  Death  enters,  and  the  world 
recedes.  The  shadow  of  his  dread  invisibility,  the 
haunting  sense  of  his  impalpable  presence,  the  help- 
less knowledge  of  his  relentless  purpose,  the  thought, 
growing  with  every  vibration  of  the  brain,  that  his 
departure  would  leave  all  that  was  beautiful  and  inno- 


ON  THE  GROUND  OF  HONOUR   221 

cent  and  kind  in  her  life  a  memory,  wrung  from 
Anne's  heart  the  bitterness  of  her  pain. 

A  divine  sorrow  took  possession  of  her. 

When  Death  preaches  from  the  text,  "What  shall 
it  profit  a  man,"  compromise  bows  its  head  and 
equivocation  is  silent.  Who  can  weave  garlands  with 
the  hands  full  of  dust  and  ashes? 

As  self  receded  and  tenderness  for  the  dying  took 
its  place,  Anne  became  conscious  of  a  restful  tran- 
quillity. She  gave  herself  to  comfort  her  friend.  She 
lost  the  sharpness  of  her  pain. 

Mrs.  Dobson  resisted  at  first  the  idea  that  Ramsay 
M'Gavin  should  come  to  see  her.  "I  shall  keep  my 
bed;  I  shall  drink  no  medicine,"  she  said  emphatic- 
ally; and  she  added,  "What  is  the  medicine  for 
denouement?  "  But  later  in  the  day,  by  gentle  reason- 
ing and  quiet  entreaty,  Anne  succeeded  in  turning 
the  old  lady's  mind.  "Do  as  you  like,"  said  Mrs. 
Dobson;  "but  no  fuss."  Ramsay  M'Gavin  arrived 
in  the  afternoon. 

Anne  saw  him  in  the  drawing-room  before  they  went 
up-stairs.  He  listened  with  his  usual  solemnity.  His 
gravity  for  death  was  the  same  as  his  gravity  for 
measles.  Anne  warned  him  against  saying  anything 
to  disturb  the  invalid.  "She  is  of  a  great  age,"  he 
said,  apparently  without  feeling;  "but  her  vitality  is 
unusual.  I  do  not  anticipate  a  sudden  termination. 
Let  us  go  up-stairs." 

As  they  entered  the  little  white  bedroom,  Mrs.  Dob- 
son  turned  her  dark  eyes  towards  him.  He  walked 
slowly  forward,  close-buttoned  and  solemn,  and  said, 


222  THE   CAGE 

with  an  assumption  of  cheerfulness,  "Weil,  Mrs. 
Dobson,  and  so  you're  keeping  your  bed,  are  you? 
Not  quite  yourself,  perhaps.  A  bad  night,  I  under- 
stand." He  drew  a  chair  to  the  bedside  and  sat  down. 
"Allow  me  just  to  feel  your  pulse  for  a  minute.  The 
usual  formality." 

"The  point  of  departure,"  she  rejoined. 

M'Gavin  pursed  his  lips.  "It's  an  old-fashioned 
beginning,"  he  said,  "but  founded  on  reason." 

She  put  out  her  hand. 

"Ah,  nothing  very  serious,"  he  said  easily.  "A 
little  care  in  your  diet,  rest,  and  perhaps  something  to 
ensure  you  a  night's  sleep.  You've  no  pain  in  your 
heart,  I  take  it  ? — the  breathing  easy  ?  Yes ;  nothing 
to  worry  us.  You'll  have  to  take  things  easy  for  a 
few  days."  He  began  to  look  about  him,  first  at  the 
open  window,  then  at  the  height  of  the  ceiling,  after- 
wards at  the  flowers  which  Anne  had  brought  that 
morning  fresh  into  the  room.  "Plenty  of  sunshine 
and  air,"  he  said;  "a  nice  cheerful  room;  not  too 
much  open  window  at  night ;  and  perhaps  the  flowers 
might  be  taken  outside  in  the  evening.  It's  a  very 
nice  room  to  be  ill  in,  Mrs.  Dobson.  You  won't  feel 
the  fatigue  of  lying  in  bed." 

While  they  were  speaking  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
door,  which  opened  a  little  way,  followed  by  the 
appearance  of  Minionette's  rather  startled  face.  "If 
you  please,  ma'am,"  she  said  to  Anne,  "Canon  Case, 
In  the  drawing-room.  But  he  said  you  weren't  to 
come  down  if  you  were  busy.  He  didn't  know  Mrs. 
Dobson  was  ill." 


ON  THE  GROUND  OF  HONOUR   223 

Anne  hesitated. 

"Go  down  to  him,"  said  Mrs.  Dobson.  "The 
clergyman  and  the  doctor,"  she  muttered  to  herself; 
"most  appropriate." 

When  the  door  had  closed  upon  Anne,  Mrs.  Dobson 
turned  to  the  doctor  and  said,  in  her  solemn,  slow 
voice,  "Ramsay,  tell  me  the  truth." 

"The  truth?" 

"  How  long,  Ramsay  ?  " 

He  made  light  of  the  question.  He  took  a  cheerful 
view  of  her  situation.  There  was  no  crisis. 

She  interrupted  him.  "Is  it  a  matter  of  weeks  or  of 
days?  Don't  tell  me  a  lie." 

He  assured  her  that  the  question  was  unreasonable. 
He  endeavoured  to  persuade  her  that  no  doctor  who 
respected  his  profession  would  pretend  that  he  had 
knowledge  enough  to  answer  it. 

"I  am  dying,"  she  said.  "7  know  it,  if  you 
don't.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  how  long  I  shall  be 
about  it.  Dr.  Ainslie  would  have  told  me.  You  tell 
me." 

He  told  her  the  truth.  He  anticipated  no  collapse. 
He  thought  it  might  be  a  matter  of  months.  No  one, 
he  assured  her,  could  say  exactly  how  long.  It  was 
the  end,  certainly ;  but  old  age  itself  may  be  regarded 
as  the  end,  and  old  people  who  take  care  of  themselves 
live  a  long  time. 

"Instead  of  sending  me  a  sleeping  draught,"  said 
Mrs.  Dobson,  "send  me  your  mother." 

"She  will  be  happy,  I  am  sure,  to  come  and  sit  with 
you.** 


224  THE   CAGE 

In  the  meantime  Anne  was  in  the  drawing-room 
with  Canon  Case.  She  found  the  tall,  thin,  bearded 
and  spectacled  man  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
his  hat  and  umbrella  in  his  hand,  unwilling  to  keep 
her  or  to  interrupt  her  duties.  They  did  not  sit 
down,  but  stood  talking  of  Mrs.  Dobson's  illness  in 
low  voices.  He  was  sympathetic  in  a  gracious  and 
tranquillizing  manner  which  made  an  appeal  to 
her. 

She  scarcely  knew  him.  As  we  have  said,  he  took 
little  part  in  the  social  life  of  his  parish.  He  was  the 
scholar  priest,  the  student,  the  theologian,  a  repre- 
sentative of  the  intellect  of  Anglicanism,  a  defender 
of  the  faith.  Without  straining  the  proverb  that  the 
pen  is  mightier  than  the  sword,  it  may  be  said  that 
Canon  Case,  as  defender  of  the  faith,  was  entitled  to 
at  least  some  of  the  glory  ascribed  to  the  royal  holders 
of  that  title.  » 

There  were  two  sides  to  his  character.  He  crossed 
swords  with  men  of  science;  he  worked  in  the  Sunday 
School.  He  contributed  to  the  Higher  Criticism;  he 
was  the  author  of  manuals  of  devotion.  His  journal- 
ism was  theological ;  his  literature  was  religious.  His 
eminence  as  a  Churchman  did  not  exceed  the  beauty 
of  his  Christianity. 

The  personality  of  this  man  had  the  indefinable 
quality  of  charm.  Without  shining  qualities  or  bril- 
liance of  demeanour,  he  made  a  profound  impression. 
He  was  quiet,  restful,  gentle,  but  with  distinction. 
His  character  compelled  deference.  He  never  de- 
scended, but  he  was  never  aloof.  There  is  an  aris- 


ON  THE  GROUND  OF  HONOUR   225 

tocracy  of  the  spiritual  life.  Character  has  a  dignity 
which  makes  rank  a  parvenu.  Men  may  be  cowed 
by  arrogance;  it  is  saintliness  which  makes  them 
reverent. 

The  grace  of  God  in  human  character  is  the  union 
of  strength  with  sweetness,  dignity  with  humility, 
power  with  tenderness,  authority  with  sympathy, 
majesty  with  humanity.  Scholarship  and  saintliness 
are  two  books,  but  they  may  be  read  by  one  soul. 
The  vicar  of  Borhaven  would  have  been  of  the  com- 
pany, whether  he  defined  with  Athanasius,  discussed 
with  Jewel,  or  supped  with  St.  Francis. 

He  was  the  antithesis  of  Robert  Ainslie;  in  this 
world  it  is  difficult  to  think  that  the  two  men  could 
have  ever  agreed ;  they  might  have  been  opposed 
to  each  other;  there  might  have  existed  a  profound 
antagonism  between  them ;  and  yet,  on  some  celestial 
mount,  we  can  imagine  that  they  would  meet,  look 
back  upon  the  cities  of  the  world,  and  understand 
each  other. 

Canon  Case  understood  Mr.  Aldrich. 

In  his  intellectual  conflicts  with  men  of  science  there 
was  a  fine  courtesy,  a  noble  conciliation,  a  spiritual 
suavity  which  refined  his  opponents  and  kept  con- 
troversy out  of  the  prize-ring. 

This  temper  of  his  mind,  which  ga~ve  tone  to  his 
writings,  was  apparent  in  the  expression  of  his  face 
and  sounded  in  the  modulation  and  sympathy  of  his 
voice.  While  he  was  speaking  to  her,  Anne  became 
aware  of  the  man.  His  countenance  was  his  passport ; 
his  voice  was  his  autobiography.  She  had  seen  him 


226  THE   CAGE 

before,  and  had  admired  the  dignity  of  his  presence; 
she  had  heard  him  preach  and  her  heart  had  felt  the 
charm  of  his  utterance ;  but  now  his  eyes  were  neither 
on  a  congregation  nor  on  a  manuscript,  but  were  on 
her;  his  voice  was  addressed  not  to  the  world,  but  to 
her  alone;  the  difference  of  the  effect  can  hardly  be 
expressed. 

Anne  was  conscious  of  a  pervasive  influence. 

When  he  heard  how  ill  Mrs.  Dobson  appeared  to 
be,  he  expressed  his  sympathy  with  Anne  in  a  low 
voice  and  in  words  which  made  her  feel  that  he  com- 
pletely understood  her  pain.  He  did  not  say  too 
much,  he  did  not  say  too  little;  in  the  tone  of  his 
voice  he  said  everything. 

"I  had,  of  course,  no  idea  at  all,"  he  said  finally, 
"that  your  grandmother  was  ill.  You  must  not  let  me 
keep  you  from  her.  But  pray  remember  that  if  I  can  be 
of  any  help  to  you,  or  to  her,  I  shall  come  most  readily 
when  you  send  for  me."  He  paused  for  a  moment, 
regarding  her  thoughtfully  through  his  thin  spec- 
tacles. "I  came,"  he  said  presently,  speaking  very 
slowly  and  with  sincere  feeling,  "to  offer  you  my 
help  in  another  matter.  I  have  been  greatly  dis- 
tressed. I  fear  damage  may  have  been  done,  uninten- 
tionally, of  course,  yes,  with  the  best  intentions  in  the 
world,  but,  unhappily,  done.  You  understand  what 
I  mean?  I  returned  yesterday;  this  morning  I  was 
told  the  story.  I  have  told  you  how  it  has  distressed 
me.  We  will  not  discuss  it  now.  Another  day,  if  you 
will  let  me.  But  let  me  say  this  to  you  now  :  Do  not 


ON  THE  GROUND  OF  HONOUR  227 

let  your  feelings  regarding  the  disciple  affect  your 
attitude  to  the  Master.  Our  mistakes  are  not  His 
mistakes.  And,  if  I  may  ask  you  to  do  so,  I  should 
like  you  to  think  kindly  even  of  the  disciple.  '  To 
understand  all  is  to  forgive  all.'  Some  of  Christ's 
ministers  have  in  them  the  blood  of  the  crusaders; 
they  can  only  serve  their  Lord  with  the  spear;  they 
accomplish  great  work,  but  their  zeal  makes  them  too 
eager  to  discover  enemies.  Cervantes  made  his  hero, 
in  h'is  eagerness  for  honour,  mistake  the  obscure  and 
the  sinful  for  the  royal  and  the  virtuous;  that  was  a 
God-like  mistake.  The  knights  of  religion,  unfortun- 
ately, are  not  always  so  divinely  Christian ;  in  their 
enthusiasm  for  righteousness  they  sometimes  mistake 
the  seeker  for  the  rejecter,  the  friend  for  the  enemy. 
What  can  we  say  ?  Only  this  :  It  is  magnanimous  to 
forgive  them." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  put  out  his 
hand. 

"I  will  interrupt  you  no  longer,"  he  said,  holding 
her  hand.  "Do  not  close  your  mind;  do  not  suffer 
your  heart  to  become  hardened — don't  do  that,  will 
you  ?  " 

He  regarded  her  with  tenderness  and  solicitude. 
"No,"  she  answered,  "I  will  not  do  that." 

"And  when  you  are  less  anxious,"  he  said,  releas- 
ing her  hand,  "let  me  come  and  see  you  again." 

"You  are  very  kind  to  me,"  she  said  gently. 

"Your  grandmother,   too;    you  will  not  forget  to 

ask  her  if  she  would  like  me  to  come  ?  " 
Qa 


228  THE   CAGE 

Anne  went  to  the  door  with  him.  Under  the  porch 
he  gave  her  his  hand  once  more,  and  said  to  her 
affectionately,  "God  bless  you,  my  child." 

She  stood  and  watched  him  depart.  At  the  gate  he 
turned. 

They  looked  at  each  other. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

IN   EARNEST 

MRS.  DOBSON  lay  in  her  bed,  and  instead  of  the 
doctor,  the  doctor's  mother  sat  by  her  side.  Mrs. 
Dobson  listened;  Mrs.  M'Gavin,  with  occasional  slow 
pauses  for  the  intaking  of  air  which  appeared  to  inflate 
her  entire  person,  droned.  But  her  droning  produced 
no  slumbrous  effect.  Sometimes  Mrs.  Dobson  would 
take  up  her  Bible,  and  write  a  few  words  on  the  fly- 
leaf. 

Anne,  in  the  drawing-room  or  the  garden,  would 
wonder  what  it  was  they  talked  about.  Her  little 
grandmother,  crouched  up  in  the  bed  with  vigorous 
eyes  and  compressed  lips,  appeared  to  grow  something 
more  restful  after  each  visit.  A  composure  of  spirit 
seemed  to  brood  over  the  natural  sharpness  of  her 
disposition.  She  was  less  fretful.  If  Minionette 
dropped  a  brush  in  blacking  the  grate  or  put  the 
water-jug  back  in  the  basin  with  a  jolt,  Mrs.  Dobson 
did  not  now  make  a  sound  of  annoyance  with  her 
tongue  against  the  roof  of  her  mouth.  If  Anne 
entered  the  room  on  tiptoe,  believing  her  grandmother 
to  be  asleep,  Mrs.  Dobson  did  not  now  rap  out 
impatiently,  "Don't  walk  like  a  cat!  "  She  was  not 

gentle,  but  she  was  not  irritable. 

229 


THE   CAGE 

Anne  wondered  what  the  old  ladies  talked  about. 

Mrs.  M' Gavin  was  a  dour  woman  with  a  settled 
expression  of  weary  anxiety.  She  wore  a  black 
bonnet,  a  black  mantle,  black  cotton  gloves,  elastic- 
sided  boots,  which  wheezed  when  she  walked,  for  she 
was  a  heavy  woman,  and  a  black  skirt.  She  sat  on 
the  chair  beside  Mrs.  Dobson's  bed  with  the  imper- 
turbability and  the  eternal  immobility  of  a  wax  figure. 
She  might  have  been  an  exhibit  from  the  galleries  of 
Madame  Tussaud,  either  a  German  royalty  of  the  last 
century  or  a  baby  farmer  whose  weapon  had  been 
poison.  There  was  something  dough-like  in  the 
texture  of  her  full  face,  which  was  overspread  with 
fine  wrinkles,  and  pouched  and  puffed  and  bagged 
like  a  quilt;  the  tired  eyes  had  the  vacuity  of  glass; 
the  pursed  lips  were  a  frozen  sorrow;  the  hanging 
cheeks  were  flaccid  with  fatalism;  the  nose  was 
nothing. 

The  intellectual  difference  between  Mrs.  Dobson, 
dying,  and  Mrs.  M 'Gavin,  living,  was  not  greater 
than  the  physical  dissimilarity  of  eagle  and  duck,  hare 
and  tortoise,  tiger  and  hippopotamus.  Anne  and 
Napier  had  sometimes  laughed  together,  as  they 
walked  back  from  the  doctor's  house,  at  the  funereal 
gloom  and  the  discouraging  monosyllables  of  this  old 
Scots  body.  Side  by  side  with  a  sack  of  flour,  there 
would  have  been  little  to  choose  between  the  two  in 
shape,  nothing  in  animation. 

Puzzled  how  to  account  for  this  dumb  old  woman's 
influence  over  Mrs.  Dobson,  Anne  once  said  to  her 
at  the  door^  as  she  was  about  to  depart,  "What 


IN   EARNEST  231 

do  you  say  to  tny  grandmother  to  make  her  so 
happy  ?  " 

Mrs.  M'Gavin  considered  the  question  with  a  blank 
face.  Then,  "We  just  chat,"  came  the  slow  answer. 
After  a  pause,  as  if  considering  whether  she  had  said 
too  much  and  had  better  retract  or  explain,  the  dame 
lifted  her  skirt  with  a  gradual  movement  of  the  hands, 
repeated  her  farewell  by  a  tired  look  of  the  eyes,  and 
moved  slowly  away,  the  boots  wheezing  a  mournful 
accompaniment. 

Ten  days  had  passed ;  for  Mrs.  Dobson,  ten  days  of 
dying;  for  Anne,  ten  days  of  acquaintance  with  the 
presence  of  death.  An  answer  had  been  sent  to 
Napier's  letter,  but  not  the  answer.  Anne  had  written 
merely  to  explain  the  calamity  of  her  present  situation, 
which  made  it  impossible  to  think  about  her  future. 
To  this  Napier  had  replied  with  sympathy.  The 
matter  rested  on  the  ground  of  honour.  Death  pro- 
vided the  entr'acte. 

Mrs.  Dobson  had  refused  to  see  Canon  Case. 
"What  is  Hecuba  to  him,  or  he  to  Hecuba?"  she  had 
exclaimed  vexatiously.  On  the  following  day  she 
added  to  this  refusal  the  following  sentence,  "There 
is  only  one  man  I  should  like  to  come  and  see  me. 
He  can't  come,  however.  I  am  going  to  him  instead." 

Anne  looked  up  from  her  needlework.  "Who  is 
that,  grannie  ?  " 

"Your  father." 

Anne  reflected.  Her  father's  strength  jumped  to 
her  mind.  With  terrible  suddenness  occurred  the 
idea  that  her  grandmother  was  afraid  to  die. 


232  THE   CAGE 

Fear  of  death  ! 

How  dreadful  a  thing,  if  her  grandmother  lay  there 
hour  after  hour,  from  dawn  to  noon,  from  noon  to 
twilight,  from  twilight  to  darkness,  wondering,  shrink- 
ing, fearing,  trembling  in  her  soul  I  An  affectionate 
mother,  standing  on  the  dockside  and  watching  the 
last  nervous  glances  of  her  young  emigrant,  with  the 
noise  of  the  sailors'  preparations  in  her  ear  and  the 
wind  of  the  cold  sea  in  her  face,  experiences  some- 
thing of  the  dumb  despair  which  seized  upon  Anne 
with  the  occurrence  of  this  idea.  To  the  poor  mother 
on  the  dockside  how  forbidding  looks  the  great  ship, 
how  callous  the  sailors,  how  hostile  the  sea,  how 
long  and  dangerous  the  voyage,  how  shadowy,  un- 
real, and  hazardous  that  unknown  land  to  which  her 
child  is  going,  beyond  the  reach  of  mothering  affec- 
tion, the  consolation  of  home,  the  protection  of  the 
family.  Fear  of  all  fears;  will  she  ever  see  him 
again  ? 

If  that  journey  across  a  human  sea  can  awaken 
anxiety,  how  much  more  shall  this  other?  What 
loneliness  matches  this  departure?  What  journey  is 
less  explored  ?  What  territory  more  unknown  ? 

There  are  many  things  which  make  men  nervous; 
a  surgical  operation,  bankruptcy,  a  lonely  road  on  a 
dark  night.  The  great  essayist  has  not  altogether 
succeeded  in  making  the  Dark  Road  a  place  without 
fears. 

It  is  a  matter  of  imagination  whether  men  respect 
death.  A  boor  will  smile  at  the  Venus  of  Milo;  "the 
nerves  of  Shelley  quivered  at  the  idea  of  loveliness." 


IN    EARNEST  233 

Men  have  died  with  a  jest;  a  fool  has  been  known 
to  dismiss  God  with  an  epigram. 

In  one  of  the  books  concerning  Pasteur  which 
M*  Gavin  had  lent  to  Anne,  these  words  of  that  great 
chemist  and  heroic  man  had  made  an  impression  on 
her  mind — 

"What  is  beyond?" — the  human  mind,  actuated 
by  an  invincible  force,  will  never  cease  to  ask  itself  : 
What  is  beyond  ?  ...  It  is  of  no  use  to  answer : 
Beyond  is  limitless  space,  limitless  time,  or  limitless 
grandeur;  no  one  understands  those  words.  He 
who  proclaims  the  existence  of  the  Infinite — and 
none  can  avoid  it — accumulates  in  that  affirmation 
more  of  the  supernatural  than  is  to  be  found  in  all 
the  miracles  of  all  the  religions;  for  the  notion  of 
the  Infinite  presents  that  double  character  that  it 
forces  itself  upon  us  and  yet  is  incomprehensible. 
When  this  notion  seizes  upon  our  understanding, 
we  can  but  kneel. 

I  see  everywhere  the  inevitable  expression  of  the 
Infinite  in  the  world;  through  it  the  supernatural  is 
at  the  bottom  of  every  heart.  The  idea  of  God  is  a 
form  of  the  idea  of  the  Infinite. 

As  long  as  the  mystery  of  the  Infinite  weighs  on 
human  thought,  temples  will  be  erected  for  the  wor- 
ship of  the  Infinite,  whether  God  is  called  Brahma, 
Allah,  Jehovah,  or  Jesus :  and  on  the  pavement 
of  those  temples,  men  will  be  seen  kneeling 
— prostrated,  annihilated  in  the  thought  of  the 
Infinite, 


234  THE   CAGE 

The  memory  of  these  words,  the  substance  of  this 
idea,  returned  to  Anne's  mind.  Her  powers  of 
imagination  were  not  unusual,  she  was  too  controlled 
by  terrestrial  common-sense  to  feel  that  quick  and 
breathing  conviction  of  limitless  space,  limitless  time, 
limitless  grandeur,  which  saturates  the  lofty  and  aspir- 
ing soul ;  but  she  did  feel  now,  with  the  thought  that 
her  grandmother  was  afraid,  the  naturalness,  no,  the 
inevitability  of  fear  of  death.  How  can  any  tfne  not 
fear  to  contemplate  the  exchange  of  the  Known  for 
the  Unknown?  For  a  moment  she,  too,  was  afraid. 
The  Infinite  ! — her  soul  was  appalled.  That  little  old 
woman  in  the  bed,  and  the  Mystery  of  Mysteries,  the 
Riddle  of  Riddles— Infinity  ! 

She  resumed  her  needlework  with  unsteady  fingers, 
and  said,  "Will  you  tell  me,  grannie  dear,  why  you 
would  like  to  see  him?" 

"Because,"  came  the  answer,  "he  would  know  what 
to  say  to  me." 

"But  you  aren't  distressed,  grannie?" 

"No;  but  dumb." 

"  Tell  me  what  you  mean  ?  "• 

"I  am  inarticulate." 

"  How  would  my  father  have  helped  you,  I  wonder  ? 
I  wish  I  knew  !  " 

Mrs.  Dobson  closed  her  eyes  and  was  silent.  She 
lay  quite  still,  quite  motionless.  When  Anne  raised 
her  eyes  from  her  work  she  was  startled,  shocked,  all 
but  terrified;  it  was  as  if  death  had  suddenly  sealed 
the  lips,  closed  the  eyes,  folded  the  hands. 

While  she  was  still  gazing  the  lips  moved.     "Do 


IN    EARNEST  235 

you  know,"  said  Mrs.  Dobson,  without  opening  her 
eyes,  "what  Ramsay's  mother  says  to  me  when  she 
sits  by  my  side  ?  Do  you  know  what  we  talk  about  ?  " 

"No,  grannie." 

"About  your  father."  She  paused.  Anne  heard 
the  faint  ticking  of  the  clock,  the  sounds  from  the 
world  outside,  the  heavy,  regular  breathing  of  her 
grandmother.  Still  speaking,  with  her  eyes  closed, 
the  old  lady  resumed.  "The  night-bell  is  still  ringing 
for  Dr.  Ainslie  1  "  she  said,  sorrowfully;  and  after  an- 
other pause,  added,  "I  feel  the  need  of  him,  because 
I  know  him  better.  He  was  greater  than  I  suspected. 
He  would  have  known  what  to  say  to  hie.  That  old 
woman  M' Gavin,  who  saw  him  three  or  four  times, 
knows  more  of  your  father  than  you  or  I  do,  who  knew 
him  always.  She  doesn't  know  all.  Her  son  knows 
nothing.  She  is  a  sponge;  Ramsay  a  looking-glass. 
She  sits  on  that  chair,  a  sponge ;  my  questions  squeeze 
out  drop  by  drop  what  she  absorbed.  Sometimes  she 
flows  on.  That  is  when  I  am  happy." 

There  was  another  pause,  this  time  of  greater 
length.  The  voice  had  died  away,  wearily.  The 
sound  of  her  breathing  became  heavier.  Anne 
thought  that  she  was  falling  asleep. 

The  uneasy  silence  in  the  room  was  suddenly 
broken. 

"  It  is  your  life  which  troubles  me." 

"Oh,  grannie  dear,  you  mustn't  think  of  me." 

"You  will  be  alone." 

Anne  let  the  needlework  rest  in  her  lap,  and 
regarded  the  inscrutable  face  of  the  dying  woman. 


236  THE   CAGE 

"You  must  go  back  to  your  husband." 

The  fear  came  to  Anne  that  her  grandmother  would 
exact  a  promise. 

"To  live  by  yourself  is  impossible.  Besides,  there 
is  duty.  You  will  one  day  be  like  me,  an  old  woman 
lying  on  her  bed,  waiting  for  the  end  of  the  world. 
The  end  of  life  ought  to  be  accomplishment.  To 
finish  and  not  to  have  completed  is  failure;  failure  is 
remorse.  Look  to  the  end.  You  are  drifting  now; 
you  must  have  a  goal.  Let  it  be  duty." 

"  I  wish,  grannie,  that  you  would  not  distress  your- 
self with  my  troubles.  Don't  be  anxious  for  me.  I 
am  making  up  my  mind;  I  have  a  year  to  decide; 
and  it  is  sure " 

"Decide  now." 

Anne  said  nothing. 

Presently  Mrs.  Dobson  opened  her  eyes  wearily. 
She  turned  slowly  upon  her  side,  and  regarded  her 
granddaughter.  It  was  disturbing  to  have  those 
glowing  eyes  fixed  upon  one.  The  face  was  the  face 
of  death;  the  eyes  were  a  soul  looking  on  earthly 
things  for  the  last  time.  There  was  no  affectionate 
smile  of  social  agreeableness.  The  scrutiny  of  the  eyes 
pierced  to  the  inmost  recesses;  nothing  was  hidden. 

"Let  us  talk  together.  The  day  of  gossip  has 
passed.  The  night  of  silence  is  approaching.  Let 
us  talk  seriously  for  the  last  time." 

Anne  could  say  nothing.  The  gaze  of  her  grand- 
mother was  like  a  spell  inhibiting  action.  In  a  pas- 
sive numbness  of  the  senses  she  prepared  herself  to 
listen.  * 


IN    EARNEST  237 

"What  do  you  think  life  is  for?  what  is  its  object?  " 
asked  the  grandmother.  "That  decision  is  your  idea 
of  God.  Do  you  see  the  truth  of  that  ?  Tell  me  what 
you  think  life  is  for,  and  I  will  tell  you  the  name  of 
your  God.  Is  that  presumptuous  of  me?  Think  be- 
fore you  answer.  No,  it  is  not  presumptuous.  For 
there  are  only  two  names  to  choose  from.  It  is  the 
old  division.  God  and  Mammon.  Between  these 
two,  these  two  alone,  everybody  must  make  choice. 
Either  they  think  life  is  for  duty,  or  for  pleasure; 
for  self-sacrifice,  or  for  self-assertion ;  either  they  think 
it  is  a  responsibility  or  a  sinecure.  Which  do  you 
think  it  is?  If  you  feel  yourself  accountable,  you 
believe  in  God.  If  you  acknowledge  no  liability,  you 
believe  in  Mammon.  Now,  in  your  heart  of  hearts, 
your  soul  of  souls,  which  is  it?  " 

"You  know  which  it  is,  grannie." 

"Then,  what  is  your  duty?" 

"That  is  the  riddle  of  my  life." 

"My  dear,  in  the  physical  world  the  intellect  can 
answer  some  riddles ;  in  the  moral  world  the  conscience 
can  answer  all.  Have  you  presented  the  riddle  of  your 
life  to  your  conscience  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"And  the  answer?" 

"I  do  not  know  it." 

"Have  you  listened  only  to  conscience?  One  ear 
to  inclination  and  the  other  to  conscience  is  Babel. 
Both  ears  to  conscience  is  guidance." 

Anne  was  silent. 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  am  anxious  about  you  ?     I  am 


238  THE   CAGE 

conscious  of  responsibility.  Do  yoti  know  why  I 
want  you  to  decide  definitely  for  duty?  Because  I 
know  that  I  shall  soon  stand  in  the  presence  of  your 
father." 

Anne  wavered  for  a  moment.  Her  heart  was  beat- 
ing unhappily.  Her  spirit  was  distressed.  Her 
reason  was  afraid. 

The  eyes  of  death  were  fixed  upon  her  inexorably. 
The  hour  of  vacillation  was  past;  compromise  had 
stolen  away. 

Those  words  "I  shall  soon  stand  in  the  presence  of 
your  father,"  brought  conflict  to  the  decisive  moment. 
Now  or  never  she  must  justify  her  reason. 

She  slipped  upon  a  knee  at  the  bedside,  and  with 
her  face,  beautiful,  young,  and  full  of  earnestness, 
close  to  the  almost  fleshless  face  of  the  dying  woman, 
uttered  humanity's  protest  against  the  gospel  of 
resignation. 

"But,  grannie,"  she  cried  gently  and  reproachfully, 
"are  you  quite  sure  that  my  father  would  wish  this 
hard  thing?  Are  you  quite  sure  that  he  will  not 
reproach  you  for  urging  me  into  what  is  so  shameful, 
horrible,  and  destructive  to  me  ?  He  was  not  ruled  by 
what  the  world  thought.  He  did  not  respect  many 
ordinances.  Was  it  not  against  just  such  a  tyranny 
as  this  that  he  would  have  fought  ?  If  I  had  gone  to 
him  and  said,  '  Father,  I  cannot  do  this  thing,'  would 
he  have  sheltered  me,  or  would  he  have  driven  me 
away  with  the  command  to  obey  the  law  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dobson  was  troubled.  The  spirit  world  had 
become  very  real.  She  was  so  near  that  shore  that 


IN   EARNEST  239 

she  contemplated  with  utmost  realism  her  meeting  with 
those  who  had  arrived  before.  In  no  mystic  ecstasy 
she  dreamed  of  the  communion  of  saints.  By  name 
she  thought  of  those  she  would  encounter;  in  human 
speech  she  anticipated  their  greetings  and  their  ques- 
tions. No  spirit  of  that  little  community  of  friends 
drawing  near  to  receive  the  traveller  from  earth  was  so 
real,  so  tremendous,  so  overshadowing  as  the  ghost 
of  the  great  doctor. 

She  had  to  consider  whether  the  advice  she  gave  to 
his  daughter  was  one  with  the  truth  of  things. 

Presently  she  said,  "Your  father  sought  to  alter 
many  laws;  he  did  not  command  people  to  break  any 
one  of  them.  Marriage  is  sacred.  The  Church  does 
right  to  contend  for  the  sanctity  of  marriage.  It  is  the 
basis  of  social  goodness." 

"Yes,  the  sanctity  of  marriage  which  is  sanctified." 

"My  dear,  you  married  of  your  own  will." 

"But,  grannie,  how  young  I  was  I  I  didn't  under- 
stand." 

"Fulfil  your  vows." 

"  If  they  have  become  false  ?  ** 

"They  were  made  to  God." 

Anne  sighed,  and  said  nothing.  She  felt  it  im- 
possible to  convince  her  grandmother  of  her  true 
position.  How  could  she  speak  of  her  love  for  Napier, 
which  made  this  marriage  impossible? 

It  was  long  since  she  had  reflected  on  her  problem. 
Now  it  returned  with  fresh  energy.  The  obscure  but 
undoubted  labour  of  subconscious  mentation  had 
Strengthened  her  antagonism.  To  call  the  man  she 


240  THE   CAGE 

loved  might  be  impossible;  but  to  obey  the  man  she 
had  ceased  to  love  was  impossible. 

"Your  father,"  said  Mrs.  Dobson  slowly  and 
solemnly,  "reverenced  good  women.  And  he  thought 
that  motherhood  was  the  highest  state  in  humanity. 
He  thought  that  no  woman  could  perfectly  fulfil  her 
being  who  was  not  a  mother.  I  heard  him  once  say 
in  Darnaway  Street,  '  Adam  fell  for  want  of  a  mother.' 
When  I  am  gone  you  must  keep  my  Bible.  I  have 
written  some  of  your  father's  sayings  about  women 
on  the  fly-leaf.  He  used  to  talk  about  mothers  to  Mrs. 
M'Gavin.  Mrs.  M'Gavin  was  the  mother  of  seven 
sons;  early  in  life  she  was  left  a  widow;  not  one  of 
those  sons  have  gone  to  ruin.  She  mended  for  them, 
cooked  for  them,  worked  for  them.  She  brought  them 
up  to  be  virtuous  men.  Two  of  them  are  successful 
farmers  in  Canada.  One  has  a  shop  in  Calcutta. 
Another  is  trading  in  Queensland.  One  is  regimental- 
sergeant-major  in  a  dragoon  regiment.  Another  is  an 
engineer  officer  in  a  line  of  steamers.  The  youngest 
is  doctor  of  Borhaven.  Useful  men.  Not  one  black 
sheep  in  the  flock.  A  woman's  work.  Think  of  this 
one  old  woman's  work  spreading  all  over  the  empire, 
her  principles  reaching  out  like  missionaries  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth,  her  soul  merging  itself  among  the 
nations.  Motherhood  I  I  have  thought  much  of  that 
since  I  came  to  be  here. 

"Your  father  said  to  Mrs.  M'Gavin,  'Englishmen 
think  that  a  little  porridge  accounts  for  the  Scot's 
success;  they  forget  the  hand  that  stirs  it.'  In  all 
virtue  and  strength  he  saw  the  influence  of  good 


IN    EARNEST  241 

women.  In  all  vice  and  wickedness  the  influence  of 
bad  women.  He  certainly  saw  nothing  more  sacred 
than  family  life."  The  old  lady  lifted  her  Bible  from 
the  bed,  and  began  to  read  her  notes  of  Dr.  Ainslie's 
sayings — 

"The  ancient  anchorage  of  humanity  is  the  home. 

"Only  one  church  for  a  woman,  her  home.  Only 
one  church  for  a  man,  his  work.  To  the  man,  the 
home  is  more  than  a  church ;  it  is  his  heaven  or  his 
hell. 

"Monks  and  mules  are  not  the  handiwork  of 
God.  A  good  mother  is  the  incarnation  of  His 
Providence. 

"There  are  some  comparisons,  like  God  and 
Mammon,  which  seem  as  though  they  must  have 
been  coined  in  Bedlam.  Another  is,  Nursery  and 
Ballroom. 

"A  crozier  leaves  me  cold,  the  worn  broom  of  a 
peasant  woman  wakens  my  reverence. 

"  It  is  the  women  who  make  a  nation ;  the  State 
is  the  marriage  state ;  maternity  is  the  politics  of  the 
world. 

"Show  me  the  unhappy  wife  and  I  will  show 
you  the  woman  who  does  not  love  children. 

"  Marriage  is  either  the  Nursery  or  the  Precipice." 
Mrs.  Dobson  looked  up  from  her  reading.  She 

R 


242  THE   CAGE 

closed  her  book,  and  let  it  lie  under  her  hands;  Her 
eyes  fixed  their  gaze  upon  Anne.  "These  few  say- 
ings tell  me  your  father's  mind,"  she  said,  with  con- 
viction. "He  would  have  been  the  last  man  to  tamper 
with  marriage.  His  indignation  was  roused  by 
married  women  who  made  light  of  the  married  state. 
What  is  coming  to  the  world?  Women  of  this 
generation  live  as  if  the  millions  of  years  of  effort 
which  represent  the  past  had  no  object  but  their  enjoy- 
ment !  You  will  hear  them  say  that  they  detest 
children.  They  speak  about  their  figures.  They 
cannot  put  up  with  the  bother  and  interruption  of  a 
nursery.  Child-bearing  is  regarded  as  something 
ugly  and  coarse.  The  bearing  of  immortals  is  a  bar- 
barism. Card-room  and  race-course  are  serious 
matters;  the  rearing  of  heroes  a  bore.  What  do  these 
women  think?  That  evolution  was  for  them,  that  it 
stops  with  them,  does  not  move  forward  through  them, 
that  they  have  no  responsibility  towards  the  future? 
If  there  is  a  God,  what  will  He  say  to  them  ?  Think 
of  the  past — how  laborious,  how  Titanic,  how  magnifi- 
cent; think  of  these  women's  lives,  how  petty,  how 
sordid — how  vulgar  !  " 

She  ceased  speaking  abruptly.  There  was  some 
colour  in  her  face,  and  her  breath  was  quicker. 

"Grannie,  dear,"  said  Anne,  placing  her  hand 
gently  upon  the  old  lady's  arm,  "it  isn't  right  for  you 
to  exhaust  yourself  like  this.  Rest  a  little.  I  will 
bring  your  hot  milk,  and  after  you  have  slept  we  will 
talk  again." 

"What  does  it  matter  if  I  exhaust  myself?     My 


IN    EARNEST  243 

dear,  I  am  at  a  stage  when  nothing  has  significance 
except  immortality.  That  is  why  I  am  in  earnest  at 
last.  At  the  door  of  eternity  one  is  thoughtful. 
Listen.  I  want  you  to  go  back  to  your  husband;  I 
want  you  to  have  a  woman's  home;  I  want  you  to 
become  a  mother.  If  you  do  not  do  this,  your  life 
will  be  a  hazard.  I  foresee  a  great  risk  for  you.  At 
your  age  women  are  tempted.  Romance  blinds  the 
eyes.  You  are  in  the  midst  of  youth.  You  cannot 
imagine  your  old  age.  But  you  will  be  forty,  with 
slower  pulses;  fifty,  with  pulses  slower  still;  sixty, 
and  grey  hairs.  Prepare  for  that  time.  Don't  lay  up 
for  yourself  remorse.  Do  your  duty.  The  universe 
cannot  possibly  exist  for  a  woman's  drame  passionelle. 
It  must  be  bigger  than  that.  Fill  your  life  with  duty, 
your  old  age  with  peace.  Let  me,"  she  concluded 
very  earnestly,  "tell  your  father  that  you  are  coming 
to  him  on  the  road  of  duty." 

"Oh,  grannie  dear,  you  must  let  me  think.  I  could 
not  give  you  a  promise,  and  break  it.  Remember, 
I  have  a  year  to  decide.  All  that  you  have  said  will 
operate  in  my  mind.  And  you  know,  I  am  sure  you 
know,  that  I  shall  do  nothing  wrong.  Let  us  not  talk 
of  this  any  more.  But  don't  be  distressed  about  me." 

The  matter  ended  there. 

Anne  was  as  zealous  for  duty  as  her  grandmother; 
but  she  asked  herself  the  question,  Which  duty? 


CHAPTER   XIX 

THE  PROMISE 

A  FEW  days  after  this  conversation,  Mrs.  M'Gavin 
was  laid  up  with  a  chill.  Mrs.  Dobson  missed  her. 

One  day  she  said  to  Anne,  "If  Canon  Case  comes 
to  see  you,  you  may  bring  him  up  here." 

She  had  been  very  silent  of  late;  if  the  old  irrita- 
bility had  not  returned,  the  new  restfulness  had  been 
gradually  leaving  her.  It  was  distressing  for  Anne  to 
mark  the  disquiet  of  this  old  lady,  who  seemed  to  repel 
conversation  and  withdraw  herself  from  Anne's  ten- 
derness and  solicitude  under  a  cloud  of  silence.  She 
wrote  to  the  vicar. 

Canon  Case  came  in  the  afternoon. 

While  he  was  sitting  with  Mrs.  Dobson,  Ramsay 
M'Gavin  paid  his  visit.  Anne  and  he  sat  in  the  draw- 
ing-room waiting  for  the  clergyman  to  come  down. 

It  happened  that  just  then  the  newspapers  were 
full  of  a  divorce  case  in  Scotland,  a  case  in  which  the 
parties  were  well-known  people  in  Edinburgh.  Anne 
had  met  them  and  entertained  them  in  her  husband's 
house;  Ramsay  M'Gavin  knew  them  by  name. 

It  was  one  of  those  cases  which  reveal  not  so  much 

the  debauchery  of  society  as  its  vulgarity,  not  so  much 

244 


THE   PROMISE  245 

its  iniquity  as  its  flippancy.  The  minds  of  the  women 
were  laid  bare  by  their  letters.  In  these  documents 
they  frankly  acknowledged  themselves  as  "rotters," 
analyzed  their  characters  and  with  a  sickly  fatalism 
criticized  existence,  mixed  up  with  assignations  refer- 
ences to  their  children,  concluded  love-letters — which 
began  with  ridiculous  nicknames — by  "God  bless 
you,"  contemplated  suicide,  described  their  lives  as 
"a  hell,"  and  declared  that  existence  was  insufferable 
without  money. 

This  was  one  of  those  cases  which  we  have  said 
appear  every  now  and  then  in  the  newspapers  to  dis- 
concert society  by  a  revelation  of  its  own  doings;  a 
looking-glass  brought  in  at  the  wrong  moment. 

Ramsay  M'Gavin  mentioned  the  matter,  as  a  philo- 
sopher. "People  who  habitually  over-eat  and  over- 
drink," he  said,  "who  have  no  occupation,  and  who 
are  striving  to  live  with  people  richer  than  themselves, 
are  very  sure  to  entangle  themselves  in  vice  of  this 
nature.  The  only  thing  for  society  to  do  is  surely  to 
dissolve  their  marriages.  It  is  pedantry  to  keep  them 
bound  by  unions  which  discredit  marriage  and  lead, 
in  their  cases,  to  degradation.  In  Scotland  we  are  a 
great  deal  more  sensible  and  just  in  this  matter  than 
the  people  of  England.  The  English  law  is  inde- 
fensible. Here  a  woman  cannot  divorce  a  husband 
unless  he  has  added  to  the  sin  of  immorality  the 
crime  of  a  blow.  In  Scotland,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
woman  is  equal  with  her  husband  before  the  law.  She 
need  not  wait  for  the  husband  to  divorce  her;  she 
herself  may  accuse  him,  and  even  on  the  grounds  that 


246  THE   CAGE 

it  is  impossible  for  her  honour  and  self-respect  to  live 
with  him  she  may  obtain  release,  and  with  the  release 
freedom  to  marry  again." 

Anne  began  to  listen  with  an  excitement  of 
interest. 

"Is  it  not  only  just,"  proceeded  M'Gavin,  "that  a 
woman  should  enjoy  this  equality?  If  a  man  has  so 
behaved  that  his  wife  cannot  respect  him  any  longer, 
ought  she  not  to  possess  the  power  of  releasing  herself 
and  obtaining  freedom  ?  Marriage  is  a  human  con- 
tract. It  is  the  agreement  of  two  people  to  live 
together  on  certain  terms.  If  any  of  those  terms  are 
violated  by  the  woman  or  by  the  man,  either  of  the 
parties  should  be  free  to  revoke  the  contract.  I  cannot 
imagine  what  virtue  religious  people  see  in  forcing 
a  man  or  woman  who  cannot  agree  to  live  together. 
But  that  is  my  ignorance.  I  have  been  too  busy  to 
study  the  religious  mind.  A  man  like  Mr.  Aldrich  is 
for  me  a  fanatic;  Canon  Case  I  find  incoherent;  as 
for  Miss  Potter,  she  is  a  person  whose  reason  has 
atrophied,  if  it  ever  existed." 

"I  had  no  idea,"  said  Anne,  "of  this  difference 
between  the  Scotch  and  the  English  law." 

It  may  be  imagined  what  enlightenment  meant  to 
her.  A  few  years  ago — had  she  but  known  it — she 
might  have  severed  the  odious  tie  binding  her  to 
Paton,  and  with  her  grandmother's  concurrence.  She 
might  have  been  the  accuser.  Without  shame,  with- 
out dishonour,  she  might  have  stood  before  the  world 
and  said,  "I  cannot  live  with  this  satyr."  Even  now 
she  could  do  so,  but  only  with  cruelty. 


THE    PROMISE  247 

M*  Gavin  explained  the  matter  further.  While  he 
talked  Anne's  thoughts  took  their  own  way. 

At  first  she  was  raced  away  into  the  bitter-sweet 
country  of  might-have-been.  If  she  had  only  known 
her  legal  position  a  few  years  ago,  the  struggle 
would  now  have  long  been  over,  all  the  distress  a 
distant  memory,  love  of  the  happiest  description  her 
present  lot.  What  a  Paradise  might  have  been  hers  I 
Instead,  what  a  Gehenna  ! 

She  felt  that  destiny  was  mocking  her.  As  she 
journeyed  to  the  country  of  might-have-been,  she 
came  face  to  face  with  the  barred  door  of  too-late. 
Sadness  gave  way  in  her  heart  to  despair,  yearning  to 
rebellion. 

Life  had  played  a  jest  upon  her. 

M' Gavin  talked  for  a  considerable  time.  His  ex- 
planations of  the  Scottish  law  were  lucid;  he  could 
not  help  feeling  that  he  would  have  made  a  very 
good  lawyer;  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  gave  him 
pleasure;  and  Anne  certainly  appeared  to  be  listen- 
ing. He  talked  on. 

Presently,  arriving  at  the  end  of  a  period  which 
seemed  to  be  the  natural  peroration  of  his  discourse, 
the  learned  doctor  glanced  at  the  clock,  confirmed 
Anne's  timepiece  by  his  own  watch,  and  expressed 
some  anxiety  as  to  the  length  of  Canon  Case's 
visit. 

Anne  asked  whether  she  should  go  up-stairs  and 
interrupt. 

"Long  conversations,  especially  if  they  are  of  a 
trying  nature,  would  certainly  fatigue  Mrs.  Dobson," 


248  THE   CAGE 

replied  the  doctor;  "but,  perhaps,  we  -will  give  the 
clergyman  another  ten  minutes." 

The  ten  minutes  passed.  M'Gavin  was  still  unwill- 
ing to  interfere  with  the  Church. 

But  while  he  was  considering  whether  he  could 
wait  any  longer,  Minionette  appeared,  asking  Anne 
what  should  be  done  about  Mrs.  Dobson's  hot  milk, 
long  overdue. 

This  decided  the  matter. 

"You  might  certainly  interrupt  trie  conversation," 
said  M'Gavin,  "not  only  on  the  ground  of  possible 
fatigue  to  Mrs.  Dobson,  but  on  the  ground  of  nourish- 
ment. The  milk  of  the  cow  is  as  important  as  the 
other  kind  of  milk." 

So  Anne  went  up-stairs. 

She  opened  the  door  very  quietly. 

Mrs.  Dobson  was  leaning  forward  to  Canon  Case, 
holding  one  of  his  hands  affectionately  between  her 
own ;  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes  and  a  gentle  smile 
upon  her  lips.  The  clergyman,  bending  towards  her, 
had  his  face  close  to  hers,  and  was  speaking  as  Anne 
entered  in  a  low  voice  full  of  tenderness  and  consola- 
tion. 

He  looked  up  at  Anne  without  changing  his  posi- 
tion; Mrs.  Dobson  did  not  remove  her  gaze  from 
his  face.  "You  have  come  to  turn  me  away,"  he  said. 
Then,  to  Mrs.  Dobson,  "I  will  come  and  see  you 
to-morrow." 

The  old  lady  lifted  his  hand  to  her  lips. 

M'Gavin  took  the  clergyman's  place  at  the  bedside, 
but  the  clergyman  Hid  not  offer  to  fill  his  in  the  draw- 


THE    PROMISE  249 

ing-room.  He  explained  to  Anne  that  his  long  visit 
had  already  made  him  late  for  an  appointment  of 
some  importance.  "You  and  I  must  talk  another 
day,"  he  said  to  her. 

When  Anne  was  alone  with  Mrs.  Dobson,  the  old 
lady  said  nothing  about  her  conversation  with  Canon 
Case.  But  for  the  first  time  since  her  illness  she  was 
gentle  and  considerate;  a  new  tenderness  began  to 
appear  in  her  manner. 

The  visits  of  Canon  Case  were  repeated  day  by  day. 
On  each  occasion  Mrs.  Dobson  kept  him  till  the  last 
moment.  His  conversations  with  Anne  were  little 
more  than  greetings  and  farewells.  Nevertheless, 
such  is  the  force  of  personality,  even  these  brief 
touches  of  her  soul  with  his  were  not  without  their 
effect  for  Anne.  In  some  subtle  way  her  mind  was 
conscious  of  a  new  influence. 

One  afternoon,  as  she  sat  with  Mrs.  Dobson  after 
the  vicar's  departure,  the  dying  woman  said  to  her 
very  gently,  "It  would  be  wrong  of  me,  my  dear,  to 
make  my  deathbed  a  lever  for  extorting  from  you  a 
promise  which  it  might  embitter  you  to  keep  and 
reproach  you  to  break.  I  will  not  do  that.  At  one 
time  I  thought  it  was  my  duty  to  make  you  promise 
me  to  go  back  to  your  husband.  I  no  longer  think 
that.  But  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  promise  me  some- 
thing; and  I  want  you  to  keep  that  promise  before 
I  go.  It  is  a  difficult  thing,  but  not  so  difficult  as 
going  back  to  your  husband.  I  want  you  to  tell 
Canon  Case — everything." 

The  proposal  shocked  Anne.    The  emphasis  on  the 


250  THE   CAGE 

last  word  made  her  feel  how  sacred  was  her  secret. 
Everything.  Mrs.  Dobson  made  that  word  eloquent. 
It  would  not  be  sufficient  to  confess  the  distastefulness 
of  duty;  she  must  also  confess  the  temptation  of 
inclination. 

What !  to  lay  bare  her  heart  of  hearts,  to  consult 
a  clergyman  concerning  her  soul  of  souls,  even  as  one 
consults  a  doctor  about  the  body;  to  sit  on  a  chair 
and  make  conversation  of  one's  secret  affections,  with 
the  eyes  of  some  one  upon  her  to  unveil  the  sacred 
places  of  her  hidden  life  !  Impossible  !  Unthinkable  I 

She  was  conscious  of  a  great  revulsion. 

The  world's  ideas  were  not  hers.  That  haunting 
sentence  in  Napier's  letter  recurred  to  her  mind : 
"Becky  Sharp  said  it  was  easy  to  be  virtuous  on  ten 
thousand  a  year;  Christ  said  it  was  impossible.'* 
An  antagonism  to  the  ideas  of  the  world  had  grown 
in  her  mind.  She  felt  that  an  infinitely  greater  world 
lay  beyond  them.  To  be  virtuous  was  not  to  con- 
form. The  highest  virtue  was  rebellion. 

She  would  not  discuss  her  sacred  affections;  she 
would  not  confess  to  a  priest.  No;  this  promise  must 
not  be  made.  Her  grandmother  had  no  right  to 
demand  it.  Cost  what  it  might,  she  must  guard  the 
sanctity  of  her  soul.  Conscience  was  her  authority; 
she  would  acknowledge  no  other. 

To  one  lying  at  the  door  of  death  utter  confession 
of  the  inner  life  seems  no  difficult  and  no  unnatural 
act.  But  for  the  living,  conscious  of  no  nearness  to 
the  spirit  world,  but  rather  of  an  infinite  distance 
from  so  tremendous  an  hypothesis;  for  the  living  who 


THE    PROMISE  251 

are  young  and  responsive  to  earth's  incantation,  who 
are  still  in  the  maze  of  social  life  and  under  the 
influence  of  human  history,  to  consult  with  religious 
authority  on  the  dearest  and  most  intimate  things  of 
the  heart  is  not  only  to  shock  their  own  personal  ideas, 
but  to  act  in  the  very  teeth  of  apparent  nature. 

On  the  ground  of  self-respect  Anne  resisted  the 
appeal  and  repulsed  the  invitation. 

Her  grandmother  did  not  argue.  "To  please  me," 
she  said,  and  took  the  granddaughter's  hand. 

It  was  hard  to  refuse,  it  hurt  her  to  refuse,  but 
Anne  resisted. 

"It  is  the  last  thing  I  ask  of  you,"  said  the  old  lady, 
stroking  the  warm  hand,  soft  and  pleasant  in  her 
fleshless  embrace. 

"Grannie  dear,  I  cannot  confess  myself  to  a  priest." 

"I  do  not  ask  you  to  do  so,"  answered  the  grand- 
mother. "I  only  ask  you  to  consult  a  good  man.  Is 
that  hard?  You  need  not  kneel  to  him.  Ask  his 
advice." 

"The  idea  is  repugnant  to  me." 

"Just  tell  him  your  difficulty,  and  ask  his  advice." 

"  But  why,  grannie  dear  ?  My  conscience  will  guide 
me." 

"A  second  opinion." 

"If  there  were  need/' 

"My  dear,  there  is  need.  To  trust  to  our  own 
opinions  is  dangerous.  You  say,  '  It  is  my  own  life; 
only  I  myself  can  decide!'  How  unwise,  how  short- 
sighted !  Your  own  life !  Are  you  sure  of  that  ? 
Dear  child,  it  is  not  possible  to  cut  out  our  individual 


252  THE   CAGE 

life  from  the  mass,  and  say,  '  This  is  mine.'  There 
is  only  one  life.  We  belong  to  it.  We  have  done 
nothing  to  create  our  own  life.  It  is  something 
common  to  the  universe.  We  handle  it,  but  do  not 
possess  it.  Your  experience  affects  you,  but  does  not 
belong  to  you;  it  belongs  to  life.  And  life  is  so 
hazardous  that  experience  has  taught  the  human  race 
to  make  rules  for  the  better  obedience  of  its  laws. 
There  are  lawyers  of  life.  You  would  consult  your 
man  of  business  about  taking  a  lease  of  a  property; 
is  it  safe  to  consult  no  one  about  the  course  of  your 
destiny  ?  " 

Again  and  again  Anne  resisted. 

"The  man  I  ask  you  to  consult,"  said  Mrs.  Dobson, 
slowly  and  with  great  earnestness,  "is  one  who  in  a 
few  words  dispelled  my  unrest  and  brought  peace 
to  my  soul.  I  thought  your  father  could  have  helped 
me;  I  half  believed  that  Mrs.  M'Gavin,  by  talking 
of  your  father,  was  helping  me.  It  was  darkness. 
But  this  man  has  now  brought  light  into  my  darkness. 
The  universe  is  intelligible.  I  understand.  I  am  not 
afraid  to  go.  Dear  child,  dear  to  me  from  your  in- 
fancy, and  now  dearer  still  because  I  understand  and 
because  1  must  leave  you,  there  is  only  one  explana- 
tion of  all  human  difficulty,  only  one  light  for  all 
darkness — don't  refuse  it,  don't  turn  your  back  upon 
it,  don't  say  you  are  self-sufficient." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  grannie." 

"  Do  you  ?    Are  you  quite  sure  ?  " . 

"You  mean  religion." 

"I  mean  Christ." 


THE    PROMISE  253 

Anne  made  no  answer.  This  synonym  rather 
offended  her  reason  than  touched  her  heart. 

While  she  kept  silence,  of  a  sudden  she  became 
aware  that  her  grandmother  was  crying.  She  looked 
up  quickly.  The  dark  eyes,  once  so  vivid  and  ener- 
getic, were  rilled  with  tears;  the  fine  head,  once  so 
erect  and  proud,  was  bowed  in  grief;  the  firm  mouth, 
once  so  grim  in  its  masterfulness,  was  soft  and  weak 
with  sobbings. 

Quickly  Anne  slipped  upon  her  knees  at  the  bed- 
side, laid  a  sheltering  arm  about  the  little  grand- 
mother, brought  her  face  close  to  the  dying  woman's 
— so  close  that  the  breathings  of  grief  beat  against 
her  cheeks — and,  in  a  voice  of  the  most  tender  consola- 
tion, promised  to  do  all  that  she  desired. 

Weakness  had  conquered  her. 

The  grandmother  made  no  answer  to  this  surrender, 
but  continued  to  weep  softly  with  her  face  bowed  from 
observation. 


CHAPTER   XX 

THE  SAND  WASP  PUTS   TO   SEA 

THE  Sand  Wasp  lay  at  Galmpton  in  Devonshire. 
The  shipbuilder  was  making  some  repairs.  Napier 
was  fitting  out  for  a  cruise  abroad. 

It  chanced  that  towards  the  end  of  these  prepara- 
tions he  picked  up  a  newspaper  in  the  inn  and  saw 
the  report  of  the  divorce  case  which  Ramsay  M* Gavin 
had  discussed  with  Anne.  He  recognized  the  names 
of  the  parties  and,  remembering  that  they  were  friends 
of  the  Patons,  read  the  account. 

At  first  he  was  merely  disgusted  by  the  empty  and 
vulgar  lives  revealed  in  this  drama  of  the  modern 
world.  The  women  filled  him  with  scorn.  He 
thought  of  Hamlet's  words  to  Ophelia,  "God  hath 
given  you  one  face,  and  you  make  yourselves  an- 
other :  you  jig,  you  amble,  and  you  lisp,  and  nick- 
name God's  creatures,  and  make  your  wantonness 
your  ignorance."  He  reflected  upon  the  sufferings 
and  destitution  of  humanity  :  the  despair  of  prisoners 
and  captives :  the  hunger  and  cold  of  young 
children  :  the  tragedies  of  hospital  and  penitentiary  : 
the  bitterness  of  broken  lives :  the  miseries  of  un- 
employment :  the  thousand  ills  of  body,  soul,  and 

spirit ;  and  he  asked  himself  what  could  be  the  doom 

254 


THE   SAND    WASP   PUTS   TO   SEA    255 

of  these  people  who,  in  the  midst  of  so  much  sorrow 
and  pain,  lived  satyr-lives  in  the  lap  of  self-indul- 
gence. Again  he  was  reminded  of  Shakespeare;  as 
he  considered  what  possible  retribution  could  await 
these  criminals  the  words  addressed  by  the  Ghost  to 
Hamlet  occurred  to  his  mind — 

"But  that  I  am  forbid 
To  tell  the  secrets  of  my  prison-house, 
I  could  a  tale  unfold  whose  lightest  word 
Would  harrow  up  thy  soul,  freeze  thy  young  blood, 
Make  thy  two  eyes,  like  stars,  start  from  their  spheres." 

Yes;  there  was  penalty  ahead.  In  all  the  religions 
of  the  world  a  hell  is  implied.  It  may  be  the  habit  of 
a  particular  age  to  slur  the  word  and  to  draw  a 
curtain  over  the  idea;  nevertheless,  punishment  in 
the  spiritual  sphere  is  an  essential  of  religion,  and 
punishment  with  horror. 

He  believed,  as  we  have  seen,  in  two  streams  of 
tendency,  two  impulses  of  evolution.  From  the  same 
material,  struggle  for  existence  had  produced  Francis 
of  Assisi  and  Robespierre,  the  dove  and  the  vulture, 
the  gazelle  and  the  tiger,  the  goldfish  and  the  octo- 
pus, the  butterfly  and  the  bug,  the  silver  birch  and 
the  upas,  honeysuckle  and  the  wild-garlic,  daisy  and 
cactus.  In  nature  there  were  forms  beautiful  and 
horrible,  sounds  sweet  and  discordant,  odours  de- 
licious and  disgusting.  Everywhere  this  bipartite 
evolution,  this  duality  of  good  and  evil ;  yes,  among 
animals,  birds,  insects,  fishes,  flowers  and  trees  this 
visible  and  tangible  effect  of  two  forces  working  by 


256  THE   CAGE 

the  law  of  evolution,  the  one  towards  goodness  and 
beauty,  the  other  towards  iniquity  and  horror. 

If  the  one  persisted  after  death,  why  not  the  other  ? 
If  evil  refused  the  good  now,  why  should  it  desire  it 
hereafter  ? 

The  Church,  to  his  mind,  had  lost  power  over  the 
multitude  by  insisting  that  God  had  made  the  beauti- 
ful things  of  the  earth,  and  leaving  unanswered  the 
riddle  of  the  tiger.  The  tiger  warned.  It  belonged 
to  the  universe.  The  whole  earth  swarms  with  a 
multitude  of  monstrous  horrors,  whose  appetites 
create  their  forms,  and  whose  forms  are  iniquity  in 
the  concrete ;  but  theologians  shut  their  eyes  to  them, 
as  though  they  feared  God's  goodness. 

These  teachers  and  guides  of  men,  safe  in  the  fold 
of  an  ancient  civilization  and  ignorant  of  the  world, 
most  ignorant  of  evil,  did  not  apprehend  that  a  few 
hours'  sailing  from  England  brought  a  man  into  the 
heart  of  barbarism.  They  did  not  know  that  pro- 
gress was  something  local  and  particular  to  two  or 
three  nations.  They  did  not  know  that  even  kind- 
ness to  animals  was  the  immense  achievement  of  only 
one  race.  Progress,  for  them,  was  equally  spread 
over  the  globe's  surface.  They  spoke  of  the  Spains 
as  they  would  speak  of  France,  and  the  millions  of 
black  skins  they  ignored  altogether.  If  they  per- 
ceived how  sacred  and  fragile  a  charge  was  this 
responsibility  of  civilization,  and  how  perilous  was 
the  situation  of  religion,  would  they  not  bestir  them- 
selves to  warn  men  against  the  dreadful  retribution 
of  iniquity  and  rouse  England  to  the  realization  of 


THE   SAND    WASP   PUTS   TO   SEA    257 

her  calling  ?  Would  not  the  soul-destroying  idleness 
and  luxury  of  the  profligate  classes  become  impossible 
under  the  strength  of  a  righteous  public  opinion, 
conscious  that  evil  was  a  force  in  evolution  with  its 
own  line  and  a  parasitical  strangling  hatred  of  good? 
Would  not  political  parties  ally  themselves  to  fit  and 
prepare  democracy  for  its  high  but  hazardous  destiny  ? 
But  the  age  was  drugged  by  indolence.  The  Church 
regarded  evil  as  a  problem  in  philosophy;  not  as  an 
enemy  of  the  human  race. 

As  he  read  the  record  of  this  sordid  case  in  the 
newspaper,  his  disgust  changed  to  anger,  and  as  he 
dropped  the  paper  from  his  hand  anger  gave  way  to 
clamorous  thoughts  of  Anne. 

If  she  went  back  to  her  husband,  it  must  be  with 
this  kind  of  persons  that  she  would  mix  her  life. 

Was  it  right  to  let  her  go? 

He  did  not  think  that  this  Babylonian  rout  could 
degrade  the  woman  he  loved  or  tarnish  the  brightness 
of  her  soul.  But  he  knew  that  her  life  must  become 
hateful  to  her.  What !  to  be  surrounded  by  these 
flies  of  the  hot-house;  to  feel  the  breath  of  Jezebel 
on  the  cheek,  to  turn  a  smiling  face  to  Lais,  to  give 
the  hand  to  Messalina,  to  converse  with  every  masqued 
drab  of  the  drawing-room ;  always  to  breathe  an 
atmosphere  without  purpose  or  seriousness;  to  have 
one's  ears  ringing  with  the  laughter  of  rake-hell 
and  deceiver;  to  sit  in  the  light  and  watch  the 
intrigues,  the  cheatings,  the  impurities  of  a  debased 
humanity;  to  be  without  occupation,  but  over- 
whelmed with  engagements;  to  seek  nature  on  the 


258  THE   CAGE 

race-course,  humanity  in  the  restaurant,  and  interest 
at  the  card-table;  to  go  to  the  theatre,  not  for  the 
eternal  things  of  Shakespeare,  but  for  the  last 
lubricity  from  France;  to  go  to  the  opera,  not  to 
listen,  but  to  be  seen;  to  go  to  the  Mediterranean, 
not  for  the  mountains,  but  for  the  casino;  to  live 
one's  life  in  parade  and  on  show;  to  be  banished 
from  quiet  and  expelled  from  peace;  never  to  be 
doing  anything,  but  always  to  be  tired;  never  to 
help  a  soul,  but  always  to  be  full  of  self-pity  and 
complaint;  to  be  in  the  world  and  of  the  world,  but 
never  to  strike  one  blow,  speak  one  word,  or  do  one 
action  for  the  world's  progress — what !  was  this  the 
life  into  which  the  woman  that  he  loved  was  going 
with  her  eyes  open;  no  not  going,  but  going  back, 
returning,  with  full  knowledge  of  all  its  godless 
horror  and  disgust? 

Imagine  how  such  a  life  would  strike  a  man  of  the 
open  air ! 

Sick  of  the  Church,  which  seemed  to  him  but  the 
shadow  of  its  ancient  strength,  Napier  found  religion 
on  his  side — a  religion  of  his  soul  which  cried  out 
that  this  return  was  wicked  and  iniquitous.  The 
wife  of  a  madman  was  not  called  to  take  up  her  life 
in  Bedlam.  Let  Paton  come  out  from  his  world,  let 
him  present  himself  at  the  door  of  his  wife,  and  say, 
"Take  me  in,"  then  might  it  be  her  duty  to  open  and 
receive.  But  to  go  back  to  him,  to  that  soulless  life 
of  godless  animalism ;  no,  on  no  ground  !  Morality 
held  her  back,  religion  stood  in  her  way;  it  was 
surrender  to  the  devil. 


THE   SAND    WASP   PUTS   TO   SEA    259 

The  more  this  thought  worked  in  his  brain,  the 
more  he  felt  driven  towards  Anne.  His  letter  re- 
mained without  an  answer.  If  it  had  said  all  he  felt, 
that  answer  would  have  come  at  once.  No  letter 
could  express  what  he  had  in  his  mind.  It  was 
unwise  to  have  written.  He  must  go  to  her,  see  her 
face  to  face,  speak  to  her  from  his  very  soul. 

But  this  must  mean  a  declaration  of  his  love. 

He  checked  at  that.  He  was  a  man  of  honour. 
The  thought  of  speaking  out  his  heart  while 
she  remained,  be  it  only  in  name,  the  wife  of 
another  man,  offended  all  the  scruples  of  his  fine 
nature. 

And  yet,  if  she  were  in  danger !  Was  it  a  crime 
to  say  words  which  might  save  her  soul?  He 
examined  his  love  for  her;  it  absolved  him. 

The  thought  grew  in  his  mind,  My  love  can  save 
her. 

When  he  was  quieter,  a  gentle  compassion  for  this 
lonely  woman  overcame  every  other  consideration. 
With  deepest  pain  he  thought  of  her  handling  in 
solitude  this  crisis  in  her  life.  She  was  but  a  child. 
He  could  imagine  the  dreadful  vacillation  of  her 
soul,  assaulted  on  all  sides  by  the  contradictory  voices 
of  religion,  duty,  conscience,  inclination,  respecta- 
bility, public  opinion,  honour.  A  child  in  the  desert ! 
What  a  battle  for  a  woman  to  fight  alone  !  And 
death  so  close  to  her  !  He  imagined  to  himself  this 
baffled  and  frustrated  soul  ministering  to  the  dying 
grandmother  and  in  secret  wrestling  with  the  toils 
of  destiny.  How  he  pitied  her,  how  he  loved  her, 

S3 


260  THE   CAGE 

how  he  longed  to  be  near  that  he  might  comfort  and 
sustain  her ! 

Then  there  was  the  thought  that  at  the  death  of 
Mrs.  Dobson  she  would  be  quite  alone.  Worse,  her 
husband  on  one  side,  her  mother  on  the  other, 
drawing  her  back  to  that  hell. 

"I  will  go  to  her,"  he  decided. 

It  seemed  to  him  no  sin  to  speak  his  love.  His 
love  could  save  her. 

When  this  resolution  was  reached  he  lost  no  time 
in  giving  it  effect.  He  was  a  man  of  action.  With 
the  wind  against  him  and  a  wild  sea,  he  hauled  up 
his  anchor,  set  his  sail,  and  started  close-hauled  with 
relief  and  gladness  in  his  heart,  on  this  desperate 
quest. 

From  shore  the  single-handed  Sand  Wasp,  driving 
out  to  sea  and  half-buried  under  the  heave  of  waves, 
with  her  sail  diminishing  in  that  wide  waste  of  water 
as  she  made  a  long  leg  for  Portland  Bill  with  St. 
Alban's  Race  to  be  passed  in  the  night,  presented  on 
that  grey  day  an  idea  of  solitude  and  depression 
which  might  have  made  the  neediest  mendicant  hug 
his  rags  with  gratitude  for  the  firm  earth. 

But  Napier,  lying  on  the  deck,  with  his  back 
against  the  weather  rail,  his  feet  purchased  against 
the  binnacle,  his  hand  holding  the  tiller  by  a  rope, 
his  eyes  watching  the  sail,  had  a  look  of  happiness  in 
his  face  and  was  singing  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

THE  UNCONQUERABLE   HOPE 

Two  or  three  days  after  Anne's  surrender  to  her 
grandmother  Canon  Case  came  down-stairs  from 
Mrs.  Dobson's  bedroom  earlier  than  usual. 

Anne  came  from  the  drawing-room  to  receive  him 
in  the  hall.  She  stood  in  the  doorway,  very  pale  and 
with  a  set  look  in  her  eyes.  "Will  you  come  in  for 
a  few  minutes  ? "  she  invited,  in  a  voice  that  was 
composed  but  not  happy. 

They  entered  the  drawing-room ;  the  door  closed ; 
they  were  alone  together. 

How  would  this  meeting  end  ?  When  the  door 
opened  again,  what  decision  would  have  been  reached  ? 
When  they  separated,  what  resolution  would  have 
been  formed?  Destiny,  perhaps,  had  his  ear  at  the 
keyhole. 

In  Anne's  mind  was  the  determination  to  abide  by 
her  agreement  with  Richard  Paton,  a  year  to  decide. 
This  was  her  just  right,  and  she  would  hold  to  it. 
The  priest  might  influence  her  to  reach  the  decision 
of  surrender,  but  it  would  be  only  her  own  will,  and 
at  the  end  of  the  year.  She  would  permit  no  coercion. 

The  natural  distress  of  which  she  was  conscious  in 

discussing  the  secrets  of  her  heart  was  aggravated  by 

261 


262  THE   CAGE 

the  difficulty  which  she  felt  would  present  itself  if  the 
clergyman  attempted  to  coerce  her  will  by  appeals 
to  her  conscience.  Hard  enough  was  it  to  keep  her 
promise  to  Mrs.  Dobson,  but  how  much  harder  would 
it  be  to  offer  opposition  to  any  kind,  affectionate  and 
religious  force  exerted  by  this  good  man.  Hard,  but 
inevitable.  Even  if  Mrs.  Dobson,  with  her  last 
breath,  implored  Anne  to  surrender,  she  knew  that  she 
would  have  strength  to  refuse.  She  would  refuse 
now  if  the  priest  put  pressure  on  her;  her  life  could 
not  be  taken  out  of  her  discretion  and  made  the  experi- 
ment of  other  people ;  but  it  would  be  distasteful,  diffi- 
cult to  withstand  the  appeal  of  this  good  man,  whose 
very  presence  was  a  spiritual  rebuke  to  self-will  and 
aggression.  She  dreaded  the  interview.  She  feared 
a  scene. 

When  they  were  seated  she  raised  her  eyes  to  the 
clergyman's  face  but  found  it  distressing  to  meet  his 
gaze.  She  looked  down. 

She  began  in  a  low  voice  by  asking  if  he  was  will- 
ing to  listen  to  the  narration  of  a  difficulty  which  had 
occurred  in  her  life. 

"Most  willing,"  he  answered,  observing  the  distress 
of  her  manner. 

"My  grandmother,  perhaps,  has  spoken  to  you?" 

"No." 

"She  wished  me  to  consult  you.  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  should  not  of  myself  make  the  suggestion. 
It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  be  willing  to  listen ;  but,  it 
is  very  difficult  for  me  to  speak.  It  is  against  all  the 
instincts  of  my  being." 


THE    UNCONQUERABLE    HOPE        263 

She  had  regained  her  composure,  and  looking  up 
met  the  priest's  eyes. 

"You  are  not  referring  to  the  action  of  Mr. 
Aldrich  ?  " 

"No;  to  my  marriage." 

A  change  of  expression  appeared  in  the  priest's  face. 
"Do  I  understand  that  your  grandmother  has  put 
pressure  on  you  to  speak  to  me  ?  " 

"Yes;  the  pressure  of  affection." 

He  leaned  a  little  forward  in  his  chair  and  said, 
"You  must  not  speak  against  your  will.  Pray  put 
your  mind  at  rest.  Don't  let  this  matter  distress  you. 
I  will  speak  to  your  grandmother  to-morrow;  I  will 
explain  to  her;  and  she  will  give  you  back  your 
promise.  I  understand  how  difficult  it  is  for  you 
to  speak  on  such  a  matter;  you  will  understand 
how  impossible  it  is  for  me  to  listen  against  your 
will." 

Anne  hesitated.     They  regarded  each  other. 

In  that  look,  no  word  between  them,  was  under- 
standing. "If  you  will  let  me,"  she  said,  with  a 
sudden  yielding  of  her  will,  "I  should  like  to  tell 
you." 

She  had  thought  of  herself  as  dragged  away  from 
the  sanctuary  of  independence,  forced  to  stand  before 
the  tribunal  of  authority.  She  had  felt  herself  to 
be  the  victim  of  an  intolerable  inquisition.  Her  inner 
life  was  to  be  laid  bare.  Not  her  own  conscience,  but 
the  conscience  of  another  was  to  probe  the  hidden 
places  of  her  being — probe,  examine,  question. 
Against  her  will,  she  herself  was  to  draw  away  the 


264  THE   CAGE 

veil  that  a  stranger  might  behold  the  inner  recesses, 
the  holy  of  holies,  the  secret  reservation  of  her  soul. 
This  had  been  her  thought;  from  this  ordeal  she  had 
recoiled.  But  some  mysterious  emanation,  like  a 
diffused  grace  had  issued  from  the  personality  of  the 
priest  and  turned  the  current  of  her  thoughts.  In  this 
atmosphere  her  feelings  suffered  a  deep  change.  She 
saw  the  man  with  other  eyes.  He  was  not  a  judge; 
he  was  not  even  a  friend ;  she  could  not  say  what  she 
felt  him  to  be;  but  this  inexpressible  influence  was 
something  high  and  noble,  something  lofty  and  pure, 
something  which  breathed  the  wisdom  of  the  angels 
with  the  charity  of  the  human  heart ;  it  was  a  presence 
in  which  she  felt  strangely  and  restfully  at  peace; 
a  gaze  before  which  she  needed  not  to  veil  her  eyes; 
a  voice  to  which  she  was  inclined  to  listen  with  the 
hunger  of  a  soul  unsatisfied.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
this  disclosure  which  she  had  dreaded  was  to  become 
an  easeful  unburdening. 

But  when,  with  the  sudden  impulse  of  preposses- 
sion she  expressed  willingness  to  speak,  immediately 
she  lost  the  first  victorious  sense  of  satisfaction  which 
comes  with  such  surrenders,  and  experienced  an  almost 
paralyzing  distress.  What  was  the  cause?  She  had 
spoken  from  the  spiritual  region  of  thought;  that  in- 
articulate sphere  where  wordless  inspiration  carries  the 
soul  forward  in  a  rush  of  expressionless  feeling. 
Thought  is  one  world ;  speech  is  another.  One  needs 
no  words  for  a  wave  of  repentance ;  "  I  will  arise  and 
go  to  my  father "  is  not  a  statement  but  a  feeling, 
an  impulse;  "and  will  say  unto  him" — the  difficulty 


THE   UNCONQUERABLE   HOPE       265 

begins;  but  when  one  approaches  and  beholds  the 
father,  what  dumb  agony  of  alarm  and  helplessness 
takes  hold  of  the  soul ! — what  can  be  said  ?  where 
shall  we  begin  ?  what  words  will  suffice  ?  how  shall 
we  speak? 

Anne  wished  to  tellt  but  could  not. 

Her  thoughts  were  clear  to  her,  but  how  to  express 
them  !  That  which  she  wished  to  tell  was  untellable. 

How  different  our  thoughts  of  God  from  our  words 
concerning  Him !  What  a  tragedy  to  be  summoned 
from  the  region  of  thought,  where  we  are  so  ineffably 
at  our  ease,  and  to  be  made  to  stammer  for  utterance 
in  the  region  of  speech  I  Is  it  not  like  a  saint  sub- 
jected to  cross-examination  on  his  faith  in  a  police 
court  ? 

This  is  Balzac's  "two  hemispheres  of  Art,"  Concep- 
tion and  Execution.  But  even  while  we  speak  of 
eternity  we  must  wind  up  the  clock.  Anne,  with  her 
soul  eager  to  utter  itself,  was  tongue-tied. 

Canon  Case  saw  her  distress.  He  realized  its 
cause. 

"Let  us  see  for  a  moment,"  he  said  gently, 
"whether,  after  all,  there  is  any  need  for  you  to  discuss 
your  private  thoughts,  which  is  always  so  difficult. 
Perhaps  if  I  tell  you  my  views  about  marriage  in 
general  it  will  be  enough ;  one  can  sometimes  get  help 
in  a  personal  difficulty  from  a  quite  impersonal  dis- 
cussion of  the  subject  that  is  troubling  us.  Would 
you  like  me  to  tell  you  how  I  regard  marriage?  We 
could  speak  about  it  together." 

His   sympathy   increased   her  affection.     His   in- 


266  THE  CAGE 

curiousness  heightened  her  respect.  "You  are  so  kind 
to  me,"  she  said,  "that  it  ought  to  be  quite  easy  for 
me  to  tell  you  everything." 

"No,  that  is  impossible;  the  heart  can  only  say 
everything  to  God.  Your  difficulty  is  just  this,  that 
you  cannot  say  everything;  you  could  tell  me  this  and 
this,  but  not  all.  It  is  because  you  cannot  say  all, 
that  to  say  a  part  is  so  difficult;  it  would  not  satisfy 
you." 

"And  yet  I  wish  to  tell  you  all.'1 

"Because  you  are  suffering." 

He  regarded  her  with  his  grave  eyes,  and  added, 
"No  confidence  between  friend  and  friend,  no  confes- 
sion of  penitent  to  priest,  no  revealment  by  child  to 
mother  ever  emptied  the  heart  of  its  sorrow,  its 
remorse,  or  its  suffering;  there  is  always  an  unutter- 
able, an  entirely  inexpressible  survival  of  self,  which 
cannot  be  surrendered.  We  may  wish  to  yield  it, 
but  when  we  make  the  effort  we  are  dumb.  It  can- 
not be  given.  If  we  could  give  it,  we  could  explain 
the  difference  of  one  personality  from  another;  for  it 
is  our  very  soul.  Our  conscience  is  more  real  to  us 
than  our  lungs  or  our  brain,  but  no  anatomist  can  lay 
hand  upon  it.  Something  there  is  in  man  which  is 
neither  for  human  eye  nor  human  ear.  It  belongs 
to  God." 

With  only  a  brief  pause,  he  continued,  speaking 
slowly  and  intimately.  "I  tell  you  this  that  you 
may  know  my  attitude  towards  anything  in  the  nature 
of  confession  or  confidence.  To  the  penitent  I  can 
offer  the  assurance  of  God's  tenderness  and  loving 


THE   UNCONQUERABLE   HOPE        267 

compassion,  but  the  penitent  must  himself  know  if  his 
penitence  is  sincere.  I  cannot  tell  that.  And  also  I 
tell  you  this,  because  I  want  you  to  understand  how 
assuredly  I  know  that  nothing  I  can  say,  no  advice 
I  can  give  you,  no  sympathy  and  tenderness  I  can 
offer  you,  will  have  any  ultimate  power  over  your 
pain  or  your  unrest.  Therefore,  with  the  confidence 
of  our  common  humanity  we  can  talk  frankly  to  each 
other.  We  meet  on  the  same  ground  of  human  limi- 
tation. No  misunderstanding  should  be  possible,  and 
no  disappointment." 

She  felt  her  distress  draw  away  from  her.  The 
duologue  assumed  the  naturalness  of  soliloquy.  With 
this  man,  who  understood  so  perfectly,  she  was  alone 
with  her  soul. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  in  her  gentle  voice  which  never 
lost  the  tone  of  courage  and  in  its  most  feminine  soft- 
ness had  the  character  of  strength;  "tell  me  if  you 
think  it  can  ever  be  right  for  a  wife  to  leave  her 
husband  ?  " 

He  considered  for  a  moment,  regarding  her  with 
thoughtful  eyes,  and  answered,  "If  you  had  asked 
me  whether  it  can  ever  be  right  for  a  husband  to  leave 
his  wife,  I  should  say,  No." 

This  answer  gave  pause  to  her  thoughts. 

"I  have  known,"  he  continued,  "particularly  among 
humble  people,  wonderful  instances  of  devotion  on  the 
husband's  part,  devotion  of  an  heroic  nature.  I  have 
known  a  man  cling  to  the  wife  who  had  lost  him  his 
place  in  the  world,  ruined  his  prospects,  wrecked  his 
home,  and  caused  dreadful  suffering  to  his  children; 


268  THE   CAGE 

and  his  reward  was  a  deathbed  plea  for  forgiveness* 
in  a  prison." 

"Noble,"  she  said  slowly;  "but,  for  the  children's 
sake,  was  it  right?" 

"Only  God  can  answer  that."  He  continued  after 
a  moment,  speaking  thoughtfully,  "But  for  the  wife 
to  leave  the  husband,  that  is  another  question.  I  can 
conceive  of  circumstances — very  terrible  circumstances 
— when  it  might  be  justifiable." 

"But  if  ever  he  called  her  back,  it  would  be  her 
duty  to  return?" 

"You  mean  if  he  had  repented?'3 

"Altered  his  habits." 

"There  is  a  vast  difference.  You  are  right." 
He  paused,  and  added  with  quiet  emphasis,  "But  it 
would  be  her  duty,  a  hard  one,  to  go  back  and  help 
him." 

"Yes;  I  see  that.  The  problem,  however,  is  deeper. 
It  is  much  deeper.  If,  in  the  period  of  their  separa- 
tion, she  had  ceased  altogether  to  feel  even  affection- 
ately disposed  towards  him;  if  love  had  become  quite 
dead,  was  non-existent  in  her  heart,  the  love  which 
makes  union  possible;  would  she  be  justified,  do  you 
think,  in  saying  that  she  could  not  go  back  ?  " 

"That  goes  deep  indeed,"  he  replied.  To  a  celibate 
Anne's  objection  would  appeal  with  greater  force  than 
to  the  average  married  person  with  the  Stevensonian 
idea  that  any  man  can  be  happily  married  to  any 
nine  women  out  of  ten.  The  refined  and  pure-minded 
priest  felt  the  full  force  of  this  beautiful  girl's  argu- 
ment ;  he  realized  the  wholesome  goodness  of  her  mind 


THE   UNCONQUERABLE   HOPE       269 

by  the  quiet  courage  with  which  she  had  expressed  it. 
"It  would  be  a  hard  duty,"  he  said  slowly,  "but  still 
a  duty — especially  if  his  safety  depended  in  any  way 
upon  her  compliance." 

"It  might  be  treading  underfoot,"  she  said,  "every- 
thing high  and  refined  in  the  woman's  nature." 

"Except  charity.** 

"And  suppose "    She  paused. 

"Yes?"  he  inquired  gently. 

Now  she  felt  again  the  distress  of  her  soul.  '  You 
would  pluck  out  the  heart  of  my  mystery  I*  How 
noble  a  reproof  I  How  could  she  make  plain  her 
position,  how  could  she  fulfil  the  promise  to  tell 
'everything,'  without  unveiling  the  most  sacred,  the 
most  occulted  secret  of  her  heart,  nay,  the  very  soul 
itself  ? 

"I  don't  think  I  can  say  any  more,"  she  said,  very 
pale  and  distressed. 

"Is  there  a  greater  difficulty?  Can  there  possibly 
be  a  harder  condition  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes."  And  then,  with  hasting  words  she  told 
him.  "The  wife,  in  the  long  years  of  separation, 
might  learn  to  feel  the  highest  regard  and  the  purest 
affection  for  a  man  nearer  to  her  by  character  and 
disposition." 

"That,**  he  Said,  "seems  to  me  to  drive  her  back 
to  the  husband." 

The  words  were  gently  uttered ;  they  were  full  of  the 
kindest  sympathy;  but  they  had  the  inexorable  con- 
viction of  a  religious  principle.  They  were  not 
counsel;  they  were  command. 


a;o  THE   CAGE 

"But,  have  you  thought,"  she  said,  speaking  very 
slowly,  with  pauses  half  nervous  and  half  earnest 
between  the  words,  "that  to  go  back  to  the  husband 
means  for  the  woman  to  abase  herself  in  the  eyes  of 
the  man  she  respects  ?  " 

"Would  a  good  man  think  that  the  fulfilment  of  a 
vow,  the  saving  of  a  soul,  could  possibly  abase  a 
woman  ?  " 

"I  think  he  must  shudder." 

"His  love  would  be  a  guilty  love." 

"  Oh,  is  that  kind  ?  "  She  raised  her  head.  A  light 
came  into  her  eyes.  "If  he  had  never  spoken;  if  he 
had  kept  always  an  honourable  silence;  if  his  love 

remained  the  highest  form  of  purest  sympathy 

How  does  love  of  this  kind  come?  Is  it  really  a 
wicked  thing,  can  it  really  be  called  wrong  ?  " 

"Love  of  that  kind  would  strengthen  the  woman  to 
do  her  duty.  If  it  does  not  strengthen  her,  it  has 
crossed  from  the  sphere  of  a  noble  affection  into  the 
region  of  a  guilty  love." 

"  Even  if Oh,  Canon  Case  I  "  she  said  sud- 
denly, rising  from  her  chair  and  walking  away  from 
him,  "  do  you  not  see  that  his  love  might  be  the  shield 
of  the  woman's  honour?  He  would  know  that  she 
loved  him.  In  his  eyes  it  would  be  a  horrible  crime 
on  her  part  if,  loving  him,  she  returned  to  a  loveless 
marriage.  Could  he  keep  silence  ?  Could  he  see  her 
go  to  this  self-degradation,  this  horror  of  horrors  ?  " 
She  turned,  and  came  back  to  him.  She  stood  at  his 
side.  "Canon  Case,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "don't 
tell  me  to  go  back."  She  drew  forward  a  low  stool 


THE   UNCONQUERABLE   HOPE       271 

and  sat  at  the  side  of  his  chair,  resting  her  hand  upon 
the  arm.  "I  tell  you  everything  in  saying  that.  My 
heart  cries  out  for  a  man  I  love;  fate  has  made  that 
perfect  happiness  impossible;  but,  if  I  stand  secure 
there,  may  I  not  also  stand  resolute  against  the  baser 
surrender?  Need  I  humiliate  myself  in  the  eyes  of 
my  friend?  Tell  me  what  you  think.  See  the  posi- 
tion, consider  the  horror,  and  tell  me  whether  it  can 
be  right,  with  a  great  and  silent  love  in  my  heart,  that 
I  should  go  to  the  dishonour  of  a  loveless  marriage  ?  " 

"  Need  I  answer  that  question  ?  "  he  asked  gently, 
and  placed  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

"I  am  fighting  for  my  self-respect,  for  everything 
that  makes  life  endurable." 

"  I  cannot  answer  your  question." 

"  I  think  there  is  no  answer." 

"Yes." 

"Where  shall  I  find  it?" 

"Where  do  you  look  for  guidance?" 

"To  my  conscience." 

"And  is  that  silent?" 

She  considered.     "Yes,  I  think  it  is  silent." 

"Silent  now?" 

"Yes." 

"But  silent  for  ever?  Look  forward.  What  keeps 
you  from  the  fulfilment  of  your  desire  ?  what  is  it  that 
keeps  this  great  temptation  at  arm's  length?  The 
knowledge  that  your  conscience,  silent  now,  would  for 
ever  upbraid  you  if  you  took  that  step.  And  if  con- 
science would  upbraid  you  for  that  gratification  of 
what  seems  so  right  and  natural  and  even  noble  to 


272  THE   CAGE 

your  inclination,  will  it,  do  you  think,  be  silent  if  you 
refuse  to  help  a  drowning  man  ?  Look  forward.  The 
long  years  ahead  of  you — every  minute  of  them 
haunted  by  remorse,  weighted  by  the  reproach  that 
you  let  a  soul  perish;  can  you  go  forward  to  such  a 
certain  destiny  ?  " 

"There  would  be  remorse,  too,  if  I  went  back  to 
duty.  My  conscience,  whichever  way  I  take,  will  up- 
braid me.  I  do  not  know  what  to  do.  My  will  is 
tortured.  Conscience  says  to  me,  '  On  this  road  I  will 
persecute  you,  and  on  that  road  I  will  trouble  you.' 
I  cannot  escape;  there  is  no  straight  road  before  me; 
no  goal  that  is  clear  to  my  eyes." 

The  hand  pressed  affectionately  on  her  shoulder. 
"There  are  two  roads  before  you,"  he  said,  "but  only 
one  conscience.  On  either  road,  on  either  road,  it 
depends  upon  the  spirit  in  which  you  make  your 
journey  whether  conscience  upbraids  or  confirms  you. 
Let  us  suppose  that  you  take  the  road  of  self-indulg- 
ence; if  you  set  out  with  scruples  in  your  mind,  with 
the  whisperings  of  all  your  purest  aspirations  still 
breathing  in  your  soul,  bitterly  will  conscience  accom- 
pany you;  but  if  you  set  out  in  a  spirit  of  defiance, 
if  you  harden  your  heart,  show  an  indifferent  face  to 
immortality,  and  reject  the  thought  of  God,  conscience 
will  find  it  difficult  to  make  you  hear;  it  will  not 
trouble  you.  On  the  other  road,  the  road  of  duty, 
if  you  go  with  no  principles  of  conduct,  with  a  grudg- 
ing submission  to  a  hard  destiny,  conscience  will  be 
there  to  mock  you ;  but  if,  on  the  other  hand,  you  take 
that  path  with  a  will  surrendered  to  God's  love,  a 


THE   UNCONQUERABLE   HOPE        273 

heart  set  only  upon  fulfilment  of  His  purposes,  a 
charity  bent  and  concentrated  upon  saving  another's 
soul,  conscience,  I  assure  you,  will  comfort  and  con- 
firm every  step  of  the  way  and  will  bring  you  into 
peace." 

"I  see  what  you  mean." 

"We  are  at  the  Cross  now,"  he  said  quietly, 
reverently,  earnestly.  "Every  sorrow  brings  us 
there,  and  every  difficulty.  The  significance  of  all 
life  is  there.  Christianity,  one  has  said,  is  a  religion 
which  meets  tragedy  with  tragedy.  When  the  accus- 
ing world  points  to  terrible  calamities  in  nature,  the 
Church  answers  by  pointing  to  Calvary.  There, 
and  there  alone,  is  explanation.  Nothing  else  in  the 
history  of  mankind  is  comparable  with  that  sublime 
and  sufficing  answer.  You  must  look  there  for  the 
solution  of  your  problem." 

Her  head  was  bowed  and  her  face  hidden  from 
him.  His  hand  still  rested  on  her  shoulder  with 
paternal  affection. 

While  he  was  speaking,  and  while  she  was  listen- 
ing to  every  word,  her  thoughts  were  yet  pursuing 
their  own  way.  It  was  now,  she  felt,  that  her  reason 
was  really  besieged.  Religion !  This  good  and 
loving  man  had  gradually  drawn  her  away  from  the 
real  problem  of  her  being  into  a  region  where  reason 
is  abandoned  and  the  soul  yields  itself  to  the  impulse 
of  emotion. 

She  was  in  that  condition,  or  at  that  stage  of 
development,  when  mortality  imagines  that  ratiocina- 
tion is  a  higher  function  of  the  mind  than  faith. 


274  THE   CAGE 

This  is  the  condition  which  renders  men  suspicious 
of  religion,  making  them  feel  that  its  divine  expand- 
ings  into  the  universe  and  its  sublime  trust  in  the 
Infinite  are  insidious  enemies  of  the  intellect. 
Reason,  which  weighs  and  measures  in  the  sidereal 
vast,  seems  something  grander  than  faith,  which 
merely  illumines  the  soul. 

The  heritage  of  her  father  was  still  strong  in  Anne. 
She  was  far-seeing,  cautious,  clear-headed;  one  of 
those  people  to  whom  the  reason  is  an  admirable  and 
sufficing  guide  for  the  business  of  life.  She  experi- 
enced a  distinct  unwillingness  to  accompany  the 
priest  into  the  religious  sphere,  whither  he  had  so 
suddenly  preceded  her. 

Perhaps  unconscious  of  this  antagonism,  and  taking 
her  silence  for  that  pause  which  the  troubled  soul 
makes  at  the  threshold  of  religion,  he  continued  to 
press  home  the  necessity  in  all  human  difficulties  for 
a  reference  to  the  Cross. 

He  spoke  about  life's  inevitable  sorrow.  "Pros- 
perity is  the  Blessing  of  the  Old  Testament;  Ad- 
versity is  the  Blessing  of  the  New;  which  carrieth 
the  greater  Benediction,  and  the  Clearer  Revelation 
of  God's  Favour  ...  the  Pencil  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
hath  laboured  more  in  describing  the  Afflictions  of 
Job,  than  the  Felicities  of  Solomon."  Religion  is 
the  Worship  of  Sorrow.  But  Christianity  makes 
sorrow  "obedient,  approachable,  humble,  amiable, 
gentle  and  patient  inasmuch  as  it  comes  down  from 
the  love  of  God.  .  .  .  False  sorrow  is  bitter,  im- 
patient, hard,  full  of  rancour  and  fruitless  grief  and 


THE    UNCONQUERABLE   HOPE       275 

penal  despair."  The  Worship  of  Sorrow  is  sorrow 
transfigured. 

He  drew  her  into  the  field  of  politics  and  showed 
her  democracy  filled  with  unrest  and  dissatisfaction, 
vainly  endeavouring  to  inscribe  the  word  Happiness 
in  a  book  of  statutes. 

"It  is  not  our  curse,"  he  said,  "but  our  blessing  that 
nothing  transitory  and  terrestrial  can  appease  our 
insatiable  desire  for  happiness.  This  certitude  of 
human  experience  is  a  warranty  of  faith.  Because 
we  are  immortal  nothing  mortal  can  content  us; 
because  we  are  heirs  of  eternal  life  nothing  human 
can  satisfy  us.  We  are  not  tenants  of  the  earth,  but 
heirs  of  eternity.  The  brain  is  obliged  to  postu- 
late infinity;  the  heart  to  assume  Fatherhood.  If 
we  contemplate  our  griefs  with  this  thought  of 
eternity  in  our  hearts,  if  we  are  assured  that  human 
life  is  but  a  day  in  the  experience  of  our  immortality, 
that  onward  and  upward,  for  ever  and  for  ever,  we 
shall  move  and  mount  to  profounder  understanding 
and  greater  love,  then,  light  will  appear  our  heaviest 
burden,  our  sharpest  pain  will  become  endurable,  we 
shall  feel  ourselves  rational  creatures  in  a  rational 
universe. 

"But  it  is  hard  to  attain  this  faith.  I  do  hot 
minimise  the  difficulty.  For  most  of  us  it  is  only  in 
momentary  uprushes  of  feeling  that  the  vision  is 
clear.  But,  a  step  is  taken  if  our  hearts  consent  to 
this — that,  given  the  truth  of  eternity,  given  the 
truth  of  our  immortal  destiny,  all  sorrow,  suffering, 

grief,    pain  and  affliction   would  become  endurable. 
T* 


276  THE   CAGE 

Let  me  ask  you  that  question.  Have  you  felt  in  your 
heart  that  eternity,  if  true,  answers  all  difficulties  ?  n 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  drawn  suddenly  from 
the  flow  of  her  own  thoughts  to  a  definite  and 
personal  point  in  his  argument.  How  should  she 
answer?  With  her  head  still  bowed  she  replied,  but 
not  willingly,  that  eternity,  if  true,  answered  all 
questions. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  of  that?"  he  asked  gently. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  decision;  "I  am  quite  sure." 

It  came  to  her  with  a  great  illumination  that  im- 
mortality, the  thing  of  which  people  talked  and 
wrote,  the  word  which  could  be  written  down  with 
pen  and  ink,  if  a  fact  of  the  universe,  did  satisfy  all 
cravings,  did  silence  all  disquiet.  For  a  moment  she 
experienced  that  infinite  pleasure  which  exalts  and 
intoxicates  the  spirit  apprehending  the  fact  of  eternity 
in  all  the  beauty  of  its  consolation  and  in  all  the 
plenitude  of  its  revelation. 

"Then,  I  can  tell  you  how  you  may  be  sure  that  it 
is  a  truth."  He  bent  a  little  nearer  to  her,  and  in  a 
lower  voice  said,  with  a  fatherly  persuasion  which 
touched  her  heart,  "Faith  becomes  a  principle  of 
action  only  by  submission  of  the  will.  That  is  the 
supreme  revelation  of  Christ  as  regards  the  religious 
life.  Subdual  of  the  passions,  control  of  the  will,  is 
morality;  a  yielding  of  the  will  is  religion.  If  you 
think  that  to  yield  the  will  is  weakness,  I  beg  you  to 
contemplate  to  Whom  you  are  asked  to  make  this 
submission.  It  is  to  God.  Can  there  be  weakness 
for  humanity  in  yielding  itself  to  the  will  of  Omni- 


THE    UNCONQUERABLE   HOPE       277 

potence?  Once  more  we  are  at  the  Cross.  It  is 
there  that  you  are  asked  to  lay  down  your  will.  At 
the  feet  of  Love.  Why  must  you  lay  it  down  ? — that 
you  may  make  room  for  the  growth  of  your  own 
soul.  None  of  your  ideals  can  give  room  for  that 
expansion.  You  must  look  to  the  Highest.  You 
must  desire  not  to  be  anything  that  you  yourself  can 
imagine,  but  you  must  hunger  and  thirst  to  approach 
the  unapproachable  perfection  of  Christ.  And,  do 
believe  me,  when  that  submission  is  made,  when  your 
will  is  laid  down,  when  your  soul  believes  with  all  its 
energies  of  love  and  thankfulness  that  Christ  did  not 
deceive  men,  did  not  teach  a  lie,  and  did  not  die  for 
an  hypothesis,  you  will  know  as  the  most  certain  fact 
in  your  life  that  immortality  is  the  truth  including  all 
truths,  the  verity  of  God  Himself,  even  the  Father." 

Without  waiting  for  her  to  reply  he  proceeded, 
gently  and  quietly,  to  show  her  how  the  Idea  of 
Christ  had  worked  in  human  history,  sweetening  the 
relations  of  life,  purifying  conduct,  solacing  pain, 
and  dignifying  the  state.  He  pressed  upon  her  with- 
out emphasis  and  without  the  desire  to  convert  her, 
but  with  a  gradual  and  increasing  force  of  conviction, 
the  thought  of  how  Christ's  Idea,  surrounded  by  all 
the  forces  of  lustful  selfishness  and  malignant  evil, 
had  grown  in  the  world  with  miraculous  persistence, 
grown  and  spread  in  spite  of  antagonism  from  with- 
out the  Church  and  madness  within,  until  it  had 
shaped  the  soul  of  Europe. 

As  he  spoke  to  her  of  more  and  more  sacred  things 
there  mingled  with  the  tenderness  and  kindness  of  his 


278  THE    CAGE 

voice  a  divine  solicitude  which  was  irresistible  in  its 
earnestness  and  sympathy.  The  attraction  of  his 
personality  breathed  a  new  power.  She  was  con- 
scious that  his  amiable  sweetness  drew  nearer  to  her. 
She  began  to  listen,  with  affection  in  her  heart. 

He  spoke  of  how  this  divine  Christ  had  dignified 
the  state  of  woman,  and  had  placed  in  her  hands 
incomparable  powers  for  good. 

"Because  He  knew  the  goodness  of  woman  He 
exalted  her;  because  He  knew  her  weakness  He 
guarded  her.  That  guard  was  Marriage.  He  Who 
alone  of  all  teachers  and  revealers  of  God's  will  made 
woman  the  equal  of  man,  bound  her  with  a  stringency 
to  the  marriage  law  such  as  no  other  attempted.  Do 
not  forget  that  His  object  was  love" 

For  a  moment  he  paused  that  she  might  receive 
into  her  mind  the  force  of  that  reminder,  which  for 
him  was  the  basis  of  loyalty  to  the  Master,  and  then 
he  resumed,  "The  Church  does  not  obey  her  Lord 
in  this  matter  of  marriage  with  a  doubting  and 
puzzled  obedience,  but  with  a  glowing  love  for  His 
divine  instruction.  She  sees  that  woman's  safety  lies  in 
devotion  to  His  law.  Outside  marriage,  it  is  a  chaos. 
And  when  the  world  says  to  the  Church,  '  But  see  how 
hardly  this  law  of  marriage  presses  here,  and  there,  in 
this  case,  and  in  that,'  she  does  not  reply,  '  They  must 
suffer  for  the  good  of  the  greater  number,'  but, 
armed  with  the  invitation,  '  Come  unto  Me,  all  ye  that 
aoe  weary  and  heavy  laden,'  she  calls  the  unhappy 
ones  to  her  side  and  shows  them  where  they  may 
obtain  rest;  she  does  not  exclude  them  from  the 


THE   UNCONQUERABLE   HOPE       279 

discipline  of  life  or  from  the  consolation  of  Christ. 
My  child,  God  is  speaking  to  you  in  this  grief.  I 
do  not  say  that  He  sent  you  this  sorrow;  I  do  not 
say  that  He  married  you  to  this  man;  but  being 
married  your  marriage  belongs  to  Him,  and  being  in 
sorrow  your  sorrow  belongs  to  Him  also.  Take  your 
grief  to  Him,  and  listen  to  His  voice.  It  was  for 
you,  sorely  tempted  and  greatly  stricken,  that  divine 
Love  became  incarnate.  If  for  you  that  great  love 
was  given,  will  you  not  listen  when  He  speaks  ? 

"  He  says  to  you,  Take  up  your  cross. 

"But,  wait. 

"He  tells  you  in  what  spirit  you  should  take  it, 
'  And  follow  Me.'  Follow  the  Highest,  not  with 
distress  and  unwillingness,  but  with  devotion  and 
love,  willing  to  suffer  because  He  suffered,  patient  in 
suffering  because  He  was  patient,  helping  others 
because  He  gave  His  life  for  men  —  looking  to 
Him,  and  to  Him  alone,  your  Master  and  your 
Saviour. 

"On  that  road  of  self-denial,  which  leads  to  eternal 
love,  you  will  find  peace.  On  that  road,  and  no 
other." 

He  leaned  forward  again,  and,  very  close  to  her 
ear,  said  encouragingly  and  with  great  tenderness, 
"If  love  for  your  husband  is  dead  in  your  heart,  it 
is  only  human  love.  Let  God  create  in  its  place  that 
divine  charity  which  beareth  all  things,  believeth  all 
things,  hopeth  all  things,  endureth  all  things.  Go 
to  your  husband  with  this  divine  charity  in  your 
heart,  consecrate  yourself  to  lift  him  from  reformation 


28o  THE   CAGE 

of  habits  to  the  sphere  of  the  religious  life,  endeavour 
by  sweet  influence  to  turn  his  thoughts  to  God,  to 
make  his  life  of  service  to  mankind;  draw  him  by 
sympathy,  kindness,  and  example  from  selfishness 
and  uselessness  to  unselfishness  and  service;  and, 
if  you  appear  to  fail  in  this,  even  if  he  goes  back  to 
the  old  offences,  ask  the  idea  of  Christ,  which  will  all 
this  time  have  been  growing  in  your  heart,  whether 
you  should  still  follow  with  pleading  and  forgiveness, 
or  whether  you  should  turn  back.  Make  your  appeal 
not  to  your  conscience,  but  always  to  your  Christ. 
Let  Him  decide;  by  Him  and  Him  alone  be  guided, 
I  think  you  will  follow.  I  think  you  will  find  that  in 
the  care  of  your  husband  lies  the  vocation  of  your  soul. 
Can  any  destiny  be  happier  for  you  than  to  save  a  soul 
for  Christ,  your  Saviour  ?  If  in  this  spirit  you  go  to 
your  husband,  charity  will  sweeten  your  communion 
with  him,  sympathy  for  his  struggles  will  grow  into 
kindness,  and  time  will  show  you  God's  will.  Be- 
cause Love  has  done  so  much  for  you,  do  this  for 
Love. 

"Think  of  these  things,  not  as  my  counsel  and 
advice,  but  as  the  teaching,  clear  and  very  emphatic, 
of  Christ  the  Light  of  the  World.  Do  not  for  one 
moment  put  yourself  on  the  side  of  those  people  who 
would  treat  marriage  as  a  human  institution  without 
divine  significance,  and  who  would  substitute  passion 
and  caprice  for  charity  and  devotion,  liberty  and 
licence  for  discipline  and  forbearance.  They  are 
against  Christ,  however  pure  their  motives,  however 
htimane  their  object.  Do  not  side  with  the  enemies 


THE   UNCONQUERABLE   HOPE       281 

of  your  Saviour.  Be  among  those  good  women 
whose  exalted  virtue  and  gracious  purity  uplifts  the 
race.  Teach  by  your  life  the  lesson  that  chanty 
makes  all  things  possible.  Let  others,  weaker  than 
yourself  and  tempted  to  do  evil,  learn  from  you  that 
marriage  is  a  part  of  this  life's  discipline,  and  that 
without  forgiveness  and  forbearance  the  union  of 
any  man  and  any  woman  is  impossible.  Teach  them 
by  your  married  life  that  Christianity  is  the  religion 
of  reconciliation.  Make  your  home  an  influence  for 
Christ.  Above  all  things,  I  pray  you,  do  not  put 
yourself  even  in  thought  and  for  one  moment  on  the 
side  of  those  who  '  from  the  name  of  Saviour  can 
condescend  to  the  bare  term  of  Prophet.'  Call  Christ 
your  Saviour;  accustom  yourself  to  the  thought  that 
He  has  saved  you ;  realize  that  through  Him  we  call 
the  Universe,  home,  and  the  Infinite,  Father.  Sub- 
mit your  will  to  Him,  and  with  gratitude  in  your 
heart  for  His  salvation  most  personal  and  precious  to 
you  yourself,  love  Him,  love  Him  with  all  your  soul, 
and  lift  up  your  cross  and  follow  Him." 

His  voice  had  never  once  passed  from  the  quiet  of 
intimacy  into  the  passion  of  proselytism,  but  in  these 
last  sentences  it  became  vibrant  with  intensity  of 
feeling. 

The  hand  laid  upon  her  shoulder  was  removed. 
It  rested  for  a  moment  lightly  on  her  head.  "God 
bless  you ;  help  you ;  comfort  you ;  guide  you ;  and 
give  you  peace." 

The  words  were  uttered  close  to  her  ear,  with  the 
moving  emphasis  of  profound  sympathy  and  sincere 


282  THE   CAGE 

earnestness.  It  was  this  blessing  which  turned  the 
scale  of  her  decision. 

She  lifted  her  face  and,  looking  at  him  with 
gratitude  in  her  eyes,  "I  can  thank  you,"  she  said, 
"for  listening  to  me  and  speaking  to  me;  but  how 
can  I  thank  you  for  giving  me  a  vocation  ?  " 

She  went  with  him  into  the  garden  and  remained 
there  when  he  had  left. 

At  the  moment  of  his  departure  the  Sand  Wasp 
dropped  anchor  in  Borhaven  harbour. 

Anne  could  not  immediately  go  back  to  her  duties. 

There  are  pauses  in  the  soul's  experience,  when 
even  the  face  of  nature  in  her  fairest  mood  is,  as  it 
were,  a  disturbance,  an  interruption,  an  intrusion. 
We  would  close  our  eyes,  abandon  our  thoughts,  and 
be  still.  So  great  is  our  vision  that  we  would  not 
see;  so  overwhelming  our  light  that  we  would  be  in 
the  dark.  To  think  is  to  be  called  back  from  the 
ecstasy.  To  examine  the  blessing  is  to  lose  the  joy. 
Solitude  of  the  body  is  not  enough,  we  must  have 
solitude  of  the  soul. 

The  problem  of  Anne's  life  had  solved  itself.  The 
solution  was  the  example  of  Christ. 

If  she  had  contemplated,  as  she  stood  in  the 
garden,  the  return  to  her  husband,  even  in  its  noblest 
view  of  service  and  devotion ;  or  if  she  had  contem- 
plated the  banishment  from  her  heart  of  love  for 
Napier,  even  in  its  noblest  view  of  self-sacrifice,  she 
would  have  lost  the  deep  sense  of  joy  which  pervaded 
her  soul  like  a  glory. 

That    joy    consisted    of    spiritual    emotion.     The 


THE    UNCONQUERABLE    HOPE        283 

'sensation  of  God's  love,  the  conviction  of  immor- 
tality. It  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  earth. 

She  was  lifted  above  all  problems  and  distress. 
The  answer  to  every  question  of  the  human  heart 
breathed  in  her  spirit.  The  details  of  mortal  exist- 
ence vanished  in  the  satisfaction  of  love  and  the 
comprehension  of  eternity. 

She  had  been  pointed  to  the  Highest,  and  from  the 
Highest  she  could  not  withdraw  her  gaze. 

She  was  conscious  of  a  Saviour. 

The  sceptic  is  learning  slowly  the  truth  of  Swift's 
epigram  that  you  cannot  "argue  men  out  of  convic- 
tions which  they  have  never  been  argued  into."  The 
phenomenon  of  conversion  puzzles  the  rationalist, 
until  he  perceives  that  the  region  of  faith  has  laws, 
like  the  region  of  intellect.  Those  laws  we  can 
observe  in  their  effects — regeneration  and  the  birth 
of  sweetness — but  the  causes  are  hidden  in  the  love 
of  God.  We  cannot  explain  conversion;  but  we 
see  its  fruits  in  the  lives  of  the  saints. 

Anne  herself  could  not  have  analyzed  her  spiritual 
feelings,  or  said,  "At  such  a  moment  while  he  was 
speaking  to  me  I  became  conscious  of  a  change  in 
my  nature."  Not  only  this;  she  would  have  denied 
that  this  change  occurred  suddenly  in  the  midst  of 
listening  to  the  priest.  It  was  to  her  as  if  it  had 
always  been  working  in  her  soul.  Always  she  had 
been  on  the  brink  of  this  surrender  which  brought 
unspeakable  pleasure  to  her  heart,  unutterable  peace 
to  her  mind.  At  her  Communions,  in  her  prayers, 
during  her  reading,  while  she  worked  in  the  garden, 


284  THE   CAGE 

walked  by  the  river-side,  visited  the  poor,  listened  to 
the  sermons  of  a  preacher,  the  arguments  of  Ramsay 
M' Gavin,  the  blustering  atheism  of  Major  Lauden — 
even  then  she  had  been  conscious,  yes,  again  and 
again,  of  impulses  towards  the  sheltering  Personality 
of  Christ  and  surrender  to  His  will — inarticulate  and 
transitory  impulses,  but  movements  of  the  soul, 
falterings  and  gropings  towards  the  light. 

This  peace  which  had  come  to  her,  if  she  had 
examined  it,  would  not  have  seemed  to  her  in  the 
nature  of  a  palingenesis ;  rather  as  an  end  to  vacilla- 
tion. She  had  ceased  to  be  undecided.  Her  soul 
had  made  its  choice.  She  was  conscious  of  Vision, 
not  of  revision.  Canon  Case  had  helped  her  to  make 
up  her  mind. 

Later  in  her  life  she  was  to  look  back  with  truer 
vision  and  call  that  change  of  mind  by  a  nobler 
name. 

But  now  it  was  enough  for  her  to  dwell  in  this 
pause  of  her  soul,  to  feel  the  joy  which  closed  about 
her  like  the  air,  the  blessing  which  rose  in  her  heart 
like  a  fragrance,  the  peace  which  breathed  upon  her 
like  a  communion  with  eternity. 

No  thought  disturbed  this  tranquillity  of  pure 
emotion. 

She  was  conscious  of  serenity. 

In  the  repose  of  a  still  and  quiet  conscience  the 
comprehension  came  to  her  that  she  had  been  led  to 
the  Summit,  and  standing  there,  as  it  were,  in  the 
light  of  a  new  dawn,  she  felt  the  unconquerable  hope 
of  humanity  grow  in  her  soul  to  be  a  knowledge  one 


THE   UNCONQUERABLE   HOPE       285 

with  existence.  Immortality  I — it  was  like  an  angel's 
kiss  upon  her  brow.  The  barriers  of  time  and  space 
fell  asunder ;  the  noise  of  the  earth  died  down ;  gates 
were  at  last  open  before  her,  and  through  those  gates, 
which  had  opened  so  soundlessly,  she  gazed  into 
the  wide  silence  of  infinity  with  calm  and  compre- 
hending eyes,  conscious  of  the  everlasting  and  the 
Divine. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

BACK  TO  EARTH 

SHE  was  roused  from  her  reverie  by  a  sound 
approaching  from  the  direction  of  the  river.  With 
the  haze  of  this  reverie  still  hanging  like  a  cloud 
between  her  soul  and  her  senses,  she  realized  that 
Napier  was  coming  towards  her.  He  was  like  a  figure 
in  a  dream. 

For  a  moment  the  dream  sensation  lasted.  She  was 
undisturbed.  She  inhabited  a  region  of  silence  and 
serenity.  The  figure  approaching  her,  seen  through 
the  miasm  of  her  own  abstraction,  appeared  with 
perfect  congruousness — a  spirit  like  herself,  with 
whom  she  would  presently  commune  quite  naturally 
in  the  language  of  her  own  ineffable  peace. 

This  spiritual  delusion  lasted  for  a  moment. 

The  figure  approaching  emerged  from  the  haze, 
and  wore  the  likeness  of  a  man.  She  recognized  him 
for  the  fact  that  he  was,  the  man  who  loved  her. 

Of  a  sudden  she  was  back  on  the  earth,  a  woman 
tortured  by  the  extreme  of  self-consciousness,  fettered 
by  all  the  little  social  humanities  of  time  and  place, 
surrounded  by  all  the  irrefragable  necessities  of  use 
and  want,  and  feeling  this  terrestrial  and  human 

position   with   a  terrible   sharpness  of  apprehension 

286 


BACK   TO   EARTH  287 

caused  by  the  immense  contrast  of  her  profound  and 
quite  solitary  spiritual  experience. 

What  could  she  say  to  him  ? 

Her  lips  knew  only  the  language  of  earthly  com- 
merce. She  could  no  more  translate  into  that  language 
the  fresh  sensations  which  had  bathed  her  soul  in  light 
and  understanding  than  she  could  explain  to  herself 
what  had  happened  in  the  hidden  recesses  of  her 
being.  She  was  on  earth,  with  a  changed  heart,  but 
with  only  a  fading  memory  of  the  revolution  itself. 
She  felt  herself  indefensible.  She  had  no  explanation. 
From  the  spiritual  sphere  she  had  been  brought 
suddenly  into  the  rational.  The  instruments  of  the 
rational  sphere  could  not  serve  her  need.  She  was 
inarticulate. 

Stranger  still,  she  felt  guilty. 

Yes,  it  came  to  her  that  she  had  deserted  this  man 
who  cared  for  her  so  much.  She  had  allowed  herself 
to  be  carried  away  on  a  wave  of  feeling  into  the  world 
of  emotion,  an  unreal  and  visionary  world,  a  world 
which  could  only  be  glimpsed  by  those  who  aban- 
doned reason  and  surrendered  conscious  control. 
Where  was  that  world  now?  Invisible  to  her  eyes, 
distant  from  her  heart !  It  had  melted  like  a  dream. 
She  was  standing  on  solid  ground,  with  the  wind  in 
her  face,  the  liftings  and  fallings  of  branch  and  bough 
visible  to  her  eyes,  the  noise  of  the  river  in  her  ear, 
the  atmosphere  of  the  old  earth  conscious  and  real  to 
her  senses.  How  wild  a  notion  that  she  had  ever 
inhabited  any  other  world,  that  she  had  stood  upon 
spiritual  heights,  that  she  had  seen  the  light  that 
never  was,  on  sea  or  land  I 


288  THE   CAGE 

In  the  midst  of  her  distress  he  came  to  her,  and  she 
greeted  him. 

"I  have  come  to  you,"  he  said,  "for  the  answer  to 
my  letter." 

"I  am  going  back,"  she  answered,  with  the  weak- 
ness forced  upon  her  by  this  violent  change  in  her 
emotions. 

"No." 

"You  must  say  nothing  that  will  make  it  difficult," 
she  pleaded. 

"I  will  make  it  impossible." 

The  strength  and  conviction  in  his  voice  roused  her 
moral  being  to  oppose  him.  She  became  conscious 
of  support,  and  was  unafraid.  In  a  moment,  timor- 
ousness  dropped  from  her. 

"Anne,"  he  said  softly,  "you  must  not  go  back." 

She  felt  suddenly  cold.  The  appeal  in  his  voice 
roused  her  compassion,  as  the  command  had  roused 
her  opposition.  "Don't  let  us  speak  of  this,"  she  said 
gently.  "  Let  us  leave  it  as  it  is,  quite  unalterable  and 
predestined." 

"I  can  alter  it;  I  can  make  you  a  new  destiny,"  he 
replied.  "I  have  only  to  speak,  and  I  make  it  impos- 
sible for  you  to  go  back." 

"You  must  not  speak." 

"But  you  are  going  to  torment,  self-destruction, 
and  remorse  1  Not  speak?  I  can't  look  on  unmoved. 
I  can't  stand  still  and  see  you  perish.  Anne,  do  you 
realize  what  you  are  doing  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  answered  firmly.  She  felt  strong  and 
composed.  "I  realize  all,  and  I  am  not  afraid. 
Listen;  you  must  not  speak  of  this  again.  Your 


BACK   TO   EARTH  289 

friendship,"  she  said  steadily,  but  with  great  affection, 
"is  quite  the  most  precious  thing  to  me  on  earth. 
Don't  rob  me  of  it,  Hugh.  You  mustn't  do  that.  I 
can't  tell  you  how  I  want  to  have  you  for  my  friend." 

He  looked  up  quickly,  with  a  certain  fierceness 
clouding  his  eyes.  "But  you  don't  realize  I  You 
don't.  Why,  you  are  speaking  in  utter  ignorance. 
My  friendship  I  You  think  you  can  keep  that,  and 
go  to  your  husband  ?  Consider,  for  pity's  sake.  You 
don't  think  that  I  shall  come  to  your  house,  sit  at 
your  table,  drive  in  your  carriage,  go  with  you  here 
and  there,  and  be  to  you  in  your  husband's  presence 
what  I  have  been  to  you  here?  You  don't  think  that, 
do  you  ?  " 

"Why  not?  "she  asked. 

Her  firmness,  which  was  almost  a  challenge  to  his 
character,  daunted  him  for  a  moment,  but  he  said, 
with  some  energy,  "It  is  impossible.  No;  if  I  must 
hold  my  peace,  at  least  you  must  know  that  to  go  back 
is  to  turn  me  out  of  your  life  for  ever." 

"I  shall  feel  that,"  she  answered;  "you  know  how  I 
shall  feel  it.  But  I  shall  dree  my  weird,  nevertheless." 

He  was  moved  by  the  pain  in  her  voice ;  he  was  too 
well  acquainted  with  her  character  to  be  astonished 
at  the  courage  and  resolution  in  her  words. 

"You  know  what  I  would  say  to  you?"  he  asked. 
"Knowing  that,  knowing  what  is  in  my  heart  and 
what  is  in  your  heart,  you  are  going  back  to " 

She  interrupted  him. 

"I  do  not  hear  you,  Hugh.  Don't  speak  like  that. 
Let  it  all  go.  I  will  tell  you  why  I  am  going 
back,  as  well  as  I  can,  and  then — let  us  begin  on 


290  THE   CAGE 

another  plane.  It  is  not  impossible.  I  know  it  is  not 
impossible."  She  walked  forward,  and  they  stood  to- 
gether by  the  gate  in  the  wall,  their  faces  to  the  river. 

The  light  of  day  began  to  fade. 

"I  am  converted  to  your  old  point  of  view,  and  to 
something  higher,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  can  see  as 
clearly  as  you  once  saw  how  right  it  is  that  I  should 
go  back  to  my  duty.  When  you  first  spoke  to  me  you 
were  unbiassed  and  quite  honest  with  yourself.  You 
saw  the  world  as  a  place  where  some  people  are  trying 
to  preserve  the  essentials  of  righteousness  and  where 
others  are  tampering  with  those  essentials;  you 
realized  the  danger  of  experimenting  with  the  base 
of  civilization.  I  see  now,  very  clearly,  that  every 
good  woman  who  is  loyal  to  civilization  is  of  service 
to  humanity,  and  that  every  woman  who  is  in  the 
least  disloyal,  whatever  her  motives,  is  an  enemy  of 
the  human  race.  The  complex  of  life  has  become 
simple  for  me.  Out  of  the  trackless  forest  of  various 
opinions  and  personal  inclinations,  I  have  come  into 
the  wide  clearing  made  by  history  and  experience, 
where  one  sees  simply  right  and  wrong.  All  great 
and  eternal  revelations  have  this  character  of  sim- 
plicity. Philosophers  call  God  by  names  which  crush 
the  brain  and  leave  the  soul  unsatisfied;  Christ,  in  a 
peasant's  robe,  called  him  Father,  and  with  simplicity 
advanced  evolution  by  a  bound  immeasurable.  Is  it 
not  wiser  to  see  that  simplicity  is  the  highest?  Is 
it  not  better  to  confess  that  complex  is  an  unsuitable 
word?  I  think  it  is.  I  am  sure  it  is.  Right  and 
wrong  is  the  old  division  of  conduct,  and  if  in  some 
particular  of  our  lives  human  experience  does  not  tell 


BACK   TO    EARTH  291 

us  which  is  right  and  which  is  wrong,  and  if  even  our 
conscience  seems  to  be  perplexed,  we  can  solve  the 
difficulty  by  presenting  it  to  the  highest  Character  we 
know,  to  our  Ideal  of  humanity.  You  know  this, 
Hugh.  In  your  heart  of  hearts,  you  have  known  it 
always.  I  do  not  say  you  knew  it  before  I  did,  for 
everybody  in  the  world  knows  that  it  is  true.  But 
while  I  was  hiding  myself  from  this  knowledge  and 
making  myself  a  standard  for  the  world's  conduct, 
you  knew  it,  and  you  told  me  you  knew  it.  Go  back 
to  that  knowledge.  Let  us  both  stand  where  all  good 
people  stand — in  the  broad  clearing  made  by  human 
experience;  we  know  what  is  right,  don't  let  us  deceive 
ourselves  and  seek  to  make  the  world's  wrong  our 
right.  I  am  happy,  I  am  secure,  because  I  know  now 
what  it  is  right  for  me  to  do.  I  have  simplified  exist- 
ence." 

"My  conscience  is  emphatic,"  he  answered,  without 
looking  at  her.  "It  is  a  crime  for  you  to  go  back.  It 
is  moral  suicide." 

He  said,  before  she  could  reply,  "Anne,  I  love  you 
with  all  the  force  and  power  of  my  being.  You  have 
divined  that  long  ago.  If  you  go  back  to  the  life 
from  which  you  once  fled  with  horror,  knowing  that 
I  love  you,  you  tear  by  the  roots  out  of  my  heart  the 
purest  and  noblest  emotions  I  shall  ever  know.  But " 
— he  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  continued  slowly 
and  earnestly — "if  you  go  back  to  that  man  from 
whom  you  once  turned,  knowing  in  your  heart  of 
hearts  that  you  love  me,  I  say  you  commit  a  crime 
against  your  own  soul.  Yes;  you  keep  the  laws  of 
men,  but  you  deny  the  laws  of  God." 


292  THE   CAGE 

She  was  neither  frightened  nor  ashamed  by  this 
sudden  and  quiet  onslaught,  so  direct  and  pitiless. 
She  was  aware  of  a  wonderful  calm  in  her  brain,  an 
inexpressible  composure  of  spirit.  She  waited  for  him 
to  resume,  astonished  at  herself. 

"Dare  you  say  to  your  own  soul,"  he  asked,  with 
the  same  quiet,  measured,  almost  detached  earnest- 
ness, "that  the  Creator  of  the  universe  married  you 
to  that  man,  and  that  your  insistent  affinity  with  me 
is  a  machination  of  iniquity?  Was  it  the  Almighty, 
or  was  it  your  mother,  who  married  you  to  that  man 
whom  you  find  it  impossible  to  respect?  Is  your 
marriage  one  of  those  unions  where  any  but  a  blas- 
phemer dare  say  that  he  sees  the  hand  of  God  ?  Those 
whom  God  hath  joined,  let  no  man  put  asunder.  I 
abide  by  that  commandment.  Very  well.  Did  God 
ordain  your  marriage  ?  " 

"It  is  among  the  accomplished  things  of  my  life," 
she  answered. 

"The  law  can  set  you  free." 

"My  conscience  is  above  the  law." 

"Do  you  mean  that  your  conscience  absolves  you 
from  all  sense  of  guiltiness  in  returning  to  a  union 
without  affection,  without  even  self-respect  ?  " 

"It  is  a  union  not  without  self-respect;  but  self- 
respect  is  something  I  can  afford  to  do  without.  I  am 
conscious  of  something  higher." 

"What  is  that?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you." 

"Do  you  mean  you  cannot  tell  me,  or  you  will  not 
tell  me?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you." 


BACK   TO   EARTH  293 

"You  are  on  perilous  ground  if  you  are  surrender- 
ing yourself  to  a  caprice  of  the  emotions." 

"It  is  something  deeper  than  that." 

"But  I  cannot  imagine  even  a  religious  principle  of 
the  highest  kind  which  should  absolve  you  from  the 
unthinkable  violation  of  going  to  your  husband  with 
love  in  your  heart  for  another  man." 

"Hugh  !   why  do  you  say  that  to  me?  " 

"Because  I  would  save  you  from  remorse." 

"You  have  said  a  terrible  thing." 

"And  very  brutally.  But  I  see  your  danger.  You 
do  not." 

"I  wish  you  had  never  said  those  words." 

"I  pray  that  they  will  cling  to  your  soul,  and  save 
you." 

"Hugh,"  she  said  after  a  moment,  "you  have  given 
me  strength  to  do  what  I  never  thought  I  could  do 
honestly.  You  have  strengthened  me  to  deny  my 
love  for  you." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her.  "What  do  you 
mean  ?  "  he  asked.  "I  know  you  love  me." 

"If  I  love  you,"  she  replied  very  quietly,  "it  is  with 
a  love  pure  and  true,  which  does  not  throw  a  shadow 
on  my  path.  This  is  the  truth,  the  truth  of  my  soul. 
With  what  love  I  have  for  you  in  my  heart  I  can  go  to 
my  duty.  Yes,  unashamed.  Do  you  understand  that  ? 
And  do  you  understand  that  any  other  love  I  would 
empty  from  my  heart  wifh  haste  and  with  shame  ?  " 

"No,"  he  said  quickly,  and  with  a  new  intensity  in 
his  voice;  "you  are  a  woman,  and  I  am  a  man;  say 
what  you  will,  the  step  you  dare  to  contemplate  is  a 
crime." 


THE   CAGE 

"Oh,  you  don't  see,"  she  cried,  almost  with  pity  for 
him,  "that  a  soul  may  have  visions  which  are  wider 
than  human  life.  You  and  I  have  talked  about  im- 
mortality. Without  that,  life  has  neither  why  nor 
wherefore;  renunciation  has  no  reason;  all  virtue  and 
goodness  are  irrational ;  there  is  no  reason  whatever, 
none,  none,  none,  why  people  should  struggle  to- 
wards their  dim  and  shadowy  vision  of  perfection. 
But  if  immortality  is  true,  and  you,  I  know,  think  it 
is  true,  then,  what  difficulty  exists  for  the  soul  con- 
fronted by  a  hard  duty  ?  what  considerations  of  the 
world  and  society  can  deter  the  spirit  from  its  course  ? 
Don't  you  feel  that,  Hugh  ?  Do  you  never  have  that 
vision  which  makes  it  possible  to  say,  which  makes 
it  so  foolish  and  childish  not  to  say,  What  shall  it 
profit  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole  world  ?  If  immor- 
tality is  true,  nothing  on  earth  can  either  pain  or 
frighten  us.  And  it  is  true,  because  only  by  im- 
mortality does  the  place  of  Christianity  in  human 
history  become  intelligible." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he  spoke, 
bitterly. 

"Are  you  thinking — I  must  ask  you  this — of  saving 
your  soul  ?  "  In  the  darkness  that  was  falling  about 
them  thicker  and  thicker  he  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"No,"  she  answered  quite  gently  and  without  re- 
proach; "I  have  surrendered  all  thought  of  myself." 
She  paused,  and  added  finely,  "Don't  you  see,  Hugh, 
that  is  why  I  am  so  strong  and  secure  ?  " 

He  suddenly  stretched  out  a  hand  and  placed  it 
upon  her  arm.  "I  want  you,"  he  cried  hoarsely. 
"Anne,  don't  forsake  me." 


BACK   TO   EARTH  295 

The  touch  upon  her  arm,  the  tragedy  of  his  voice, 
the  nearness  of  his  breathing,  shook  her  and  filled  her 
heart  with  anguish.  She  herself  was  amazed  that  with 
her  woman's  heart  so  shaken  and  so  stirred,  her  soul 
preserved  its  unclouded  serenity. 

"I  have  such  pity  for  you,"  she  said,  meeting  his 
gaze  with  fearless  sympathy.  "  But  I  must  not  listen 
to  you." 

"You  must  listen,  you  must !  "  he  cried  suddenly, 
and  drew  nearer  to  her.  "I  love  you,  body  and  soul. 
I,  and  no  other,  love  you  as  you  deserve  to  be  loved. 
In  all  this  big  world  I  am  alone  but  for  you.  I  have 
tried  to  live  without  you.  I  can't.  I  have  gone 
away,  and  I  have  returned.  There  is  something  in 
my  heart  which  will  not  let  me  rest  without  you.  I 
must  be  always  within  reach  of  you.  If  I  cannot 
possess  you,  at  least  I  must  be  near  enough  to  hear 
your  voice,  to  look  in  your  eyes — which  are  so  strong 
and  true — oh,  God,  how  I  love  you,  Anne  ! — your 
eyes  are  my  security  and  my  honour  and  my  passion ; 
in  them  only  I  have  visions  of  immortality  and  God. 
I  cannot  bear  that  you  should  go  away.  Let  me  always 
be  able  to  see  you.  I  am  so  alone  in  the  world;  your 
love  is  everything  to  me.  Never,  never  go  away 
from  me;  never,  never  give  yourself  to  another;  be 
true  to  all  the  sweetest  and  noblest  motions  of  your 
soul,  don't  be  afraid  to  go  where  they  urge  you;  I 
believe  it  is  right  for  you  to  obey  those  impulses, 
which  are  so  pure  and  so  powerful ;  but  even  if  to 
obey  them  is  a  sin,  obey  them,  for  God  will  forgive 
you — my  need  is  so  great." 

She  was  filled  with  compassion  for  him ;    her  eyes 


296  THE   CAGE 

were  tender  with  divinest  and  most  human  pity;  but 
her  soul  was  yet  more  perfectly  secure  than  before. 
Passion,  beating  against  a  spirit  utterly  surrendered, 
breaks  into  foam  and  becomes  not  grand  but  pitiful. 
She  had  compassion  for  the  man;  she  pitied  the 
weakness  which  swept  him  away. 

"I  cannot  hear  you,"  she  said.  "It  would  be  quite 
easy  for  me  to  persuade  myself  that  I  should  listen, 
and  that  I  should  endeavour  to  comfort  you.  But  the 
place  where  I  stand  makes  it  impossible  for  me  to 
lie,  even  to  you.  It  is  not  right  that  I  should  listen. 
By  urging  me  to  listen,  you  do  wrong.  But  I  will 
say  this  to  you,  because  it  is  the  very  truth  of  my  soul 
and  because  I  desire  with  all  my  heart  that  you  should 
be  where  I  am  now — out  of  the  reach  of  all  pain  and 
distress.  Hugh,  I  can  think  of  you  as  my  friend 
for  ever.  Does  that  put  your  love  to  the  test  ?  I  can 
think  of  you  as  being  often  my  companion,  of  sharing 
much  of  my  confidence,  of  helping  me  to  help  others, 
of  being  my  pleasantest  and  kindest  friend,  almost 
the  chief  influence  in  my  life.  And  without  pain, 
rather  with  pleasure,  should  I  see  my  friend  married 
to  a  woman  who  would  dwarf  my  little  vanities  by  an 
immense  superiority.  Such  is  my  feeling  towards 
you.  The  purest  friendship.  That  I  offer  to  you 
now.  It  is  for  you  to  keep  or  reject  it;  that  is  to 
say,  it  is  for  you  to  give  me  your  friendship,  your 
kindness  and  your  help,  or  to  say  good-bye  to  me  now 
for  the  last  time  on  earth." 

His  face  darkened  as  he  listened.  For  one  moment 
it  was  as  if  he  despised  her.  Then  he  exclaimed 
suddenly — 


BACK   TO   EARTH  297 

"You  say  you  are  out  of  the  reach  of  all  pain  and 
all  distress.  I  do  not  wish  that  state  for  myself.  I 
am  human,  and  I  will  not  strangle  my  nature.  What 
you  have  proposed  to  me  is  impossible.  It  is  because 
you  deny  your  human  nature  that  you  can  think  for 
an  instant  that  it  is  possible.  Descend  from  your 
brain  to  your  heart,  and  see  how  impossible  it  is." 

"With  God,"  she  said,  interrupting  him,  "all  things 
are  possible." 

"You  mean  you  are  no  longer  human?" 

She  considered,  and  then  replied  steadily,  "I  am 
above  passion. " 

"Yes,  above  the  natural  passions  of  the  human 
race.  You  stultify  your  being.  You  deny  the  gar- 
ment with  which  God  has  clothed  you.  Oh,  Anne, 
don't  let  some  impulse,  some  emotion  of  religion 
blind  you  to  the  truth  of  your  nature." 

"You  would  have  me  let  some  impulse  of  poor 
transitory  passion  blind  me  to  the  truth  of  eternity  ?  " 

"But  you  will  be  human  as  long  as  you  live  on  this 
earth.  You  can't  be  rid  of  your  nature.  If  you  do 
this  thing,  in  the  long  years  ahead  of  you,  the  years 
of  monotony  and  ice-cold  retrospection,  you  will 
bewail  with  a  terrible  bitterness  that  you  let  religious 
emotion  make  a  lie  of  your  love  and  your  humanity." 

"The  older  I  live  the  nearer  I  shall  be  to  eternity." 
She  looked  towards  him  in  the  darkness,  watched  his 
shadowed  eyes,  and  asked  wonderingly,  "Can  you 
conceive  of  no  one  living  above  the  plane  of  passion  ?" 

The  question  threw  him  into  the  mud  of  inferiority. 

She  spoke  quite  tenderly,  but  with  a  certain  pride. 
She  seemed  to  stand  above  him,  while  he  gazed  up  at 


298  THE   CAGE 

her  from  a  place  of  license,  weakness  and  carnality. 
To  cry  out  that  she  was  cold  and  passionless  would 
have  been  to  charge  the  stars  with  a  lack  of  scarlet 
shades  and  restaurant  music.  To  arraign  her  as  a 
woman  dehumanized  would  have  been  to  glorify  "the 
painted  disasters  of  the  street."  He  recognized  her 
at  that  moment  as  a  woman  infinitely  tender  and 
infinitely  lovable,  but  pure  with  a  chastity  which 
rebuked  the  headlong  passion  of  his  heart.  In  that 
recognition  of  her  divine  nature  was  his  salvation. 
She  made  him  ashamed  of  his  feelings.  She  revealed 
to  him  a  higher  love  than  he  had  dreamed  of.  He 
was  exalted  by  the  purity  of  her  spirit. 

If  Napier  had  been  a  decadent  of  cities,  if  he  had 
lived  by  a  philosophy  which  endeavours  to  strike  a 
philandering  balance  between  the  aesthetic  vices  of 
the  Greeks  and  the  brutal  passions  of  the  negro,  he 
would  easily  have  turned  the  shaft  of  her  reproach 
with  the  shield  of  a  degenerate  tolerance.  But  he 
was  a  man  of  the  open  air.  He  was  eminently  whole- 
some. The  cleansing  winds  of  nature's  truth  blew 
through  his  mind,  which  never  went  to  sleep  with  a 
shut  window.  His  body  was  braced  and  manful; 
his  vision  was  clear  and  unobscured;  he  knew  right 
from  wrong  as  he  knew  black  from  white,  cleanness 
from  uncleanness.  He  was  civilized  human  nature  at 
its  highest,  a  clean  mind  in  a  clean  body.  Such  a 
man  never  mistakes  chastity  for  the  dull  hebetude  of 
an  anaemic  insensibility. 

While  she  was  speaking  a  light  rose  in  his  soul, 
and  by  that  light  he  not  only  recognized  the  moral 
grandeur  of  her  nature,  but  he  caught  a  glimpse  of 


BACK   TO   EARTH  299 

some  Hivine  existence  high  above  the  mist  of  animal 
passion  and  far  beyond  the  disturbance  and  unrest  of 
physical  expression.  There  was,  he  felt,  some  infinite 
and  celestial  satisfaction  for  the  yearnings  of  the 
human  heart,  the  joys  of  which  exceeded  the  capa- 
cities of  the  body  as  the  snow  of  the  mountain  crest 
excelled  the  trodden  slush  of  the  pavement. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  garden,  encompassed  by  the 
deepening  hush  of  nature,  and  with  the  low  and 
beautiful  sound  of  her  voice  stealing  like  music 
through  his  soul,  he  lost  the  sense  of  inferiority  which 
had  first  humbled  him  at  her  reproach  in  a  steady, 
quiet,  but  most  determined  aspiration  to  stand  where 
she  stood,  to  breathe  the  air  of  her  own  pure  heaven. 
A  father  who  hides  his  animalism  from  his  daughter 
is  sometimes  visited  by  an  intense  yearning  to  be  as 
guiltless,  as  innocent,  as  white  in  purity  as  his  child. 

But  with  this  aspiration,  the  groundswell  of  his 
soul  sounded  its  melancholy  and  persistent  bitterness. 
He  was  lonely.  His  passion  for  this  dear  and  noble 
woman  was  not  base,  was  not  unworthy;  it  was  a 
craving  for  sympathy,  it  was  a  natural  impulse  to- 
wards friendship,  it  was  the  cry  of  a  lonely  heart  for 
companionship  and  love.  The  bird  seeks  his  mate, 
as  he  sought  the  surrender  of  this  woman. 

The  thought  of  taking  her  to  his  breast,  of  placing 
his  arms  about  her,  of  bending  down  his  face  and 
resting  his  lips  upon  hers,  was  a  longing  inexpress- 
ible, unanalyzable,  but  perfectly  holy  and  just.  He 
was  shaken  through  all  his  body  as  the  whisper 
sounded  in  his  soul,  "Take  her  in  your  arms,  even  if 
it  be  in  farewell;  do  not  go  to  your  grave  without 


3oo  THE   CAGE 

having  kisse'd  her  lips  and  realized  the  beauty  of  her 
love."  To  touch  her ! — to  be  close  to  her  breathing 
loveliness ! — for  one  moment,  to  gather  her  into  the 
hunger  of  his  embrace !  The  temptation  was  terrible 
because  of  his  loneliness. 

He  set  his  teeth,  fought  the  sob  in  his  throat,  and 
waited  for  her  to  speak  again. 

"Be  my  friend,"  she  said,  "for  ever.  There  is  one 
explanation  for  everything  in  life.  Only  one.  The 
tragedies  of  the  world  lie  in  our  denial  of  that  explana- 
tion. Once  bow  before  the  Figure  which  answers 
every  cry  of  the  heart,  and  the  impossible  becomes 
possible,  renunciation  becomes  fulfilment.  Hugh,  I 
will  not  talk  to  you  now  about  my  change  of  mind. 
That  will  be  one  of  the  conversations  between  us  in 
the  clearer  and  the  kinder  future.  But  do  see  this, 
that  one  must  accept  the  Ideal  of  humanity,  if  we 
accept  Him  at  all,  in  everything.  There  can  be  no 
compromise  and  no  duality.  The  world  would  insist 
upon  the  division  of  sacred  and  secular — politics 
would  keep  its  sphere  out  of  His  instruction,  social 
life  would  keep  its  appetites  out  of  His  rebuke,  art 
would  keep  its  little  sphere  entirely  to  its  little  self. 
Hence  is  all  confusion.  But  He  must  be  for  every- 
thing human.  The  universe  exists  in  Him;  can  we 
shut  Him  out  from  anything  on  earth?  What  is 
'sacred,'  and  what  is  'secular'? — life  itself  belongs 
to  Him.  Think  when  our  one  soul  understands! 
Oh,  yes,  the  universe  is  too  vast  and  glorious  to  you 
and  me,  for  a  mistake." 

She  turned  and  put  out  her  hand. 

"Let   it   not  be   good-bye  between   us,"   she  said 


BACK   TO   EARTH  301 

very  tenderly.  "I  have  dreams  of  our  friendship, 
ambitions  for  our  faithful  love.  I  think  that  we 
might  do  something,  you  and  I,  to  further  all  that  is 
good  and  noble  and  enduring.  Will  you  not  help 
me,  Hugh  ?  It  is  a  fine  thing  to  work  for  humanity." 

He  raised  her  hand  half-way  to  his  lips,  and  then 
gently  relinquished  it  and  stood  upright. 

"It  is  not  good-bye,"  he  said;  "but  God  knows 
how  many  bitter  days  must  pass  before  we  greet 
again." 

"I  am  satisfied.    You  will  come  back  to  me." 

"When  I  come  back  I  shall  be  a  different  man. 
Shall  I  be  man  at  all?  Or,  a  beaten  dog?  But  I 
shall  come  back.  Will  you  recognize  me,  I  wonder  !" 

"You  will  be  stronger,  greater.  You  must  be. 
Because  only  the  leading  of  the  Highest  can  bring 
you  back." 

"If  I  can  come  back,  strong  and  great,  and  still  a 
man,"  he  said,  lifting  his  head,  "I  will  give  you  my 
life  to  do  what  you  will  with  it." 

"It  will  not  then  be  yours  to  give,"  she  answered 
gently.  "Wait,  and  you  will  see.  But  come  back." 

He  said  to  her  as  he  passed  through  the  gate, 
looking  back  towards  her,  "I  recognize  how  fine  you 
must  be  to  go  so  bravely  to  duty  so  terrible.  That 
conquers  me." 

The  darkness  prevented  them  from  seeing  each 
other. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

A   SECOND  MARRIAGE 

WHEN  Anne  turned  from  Napier  she  was  met  by 
her  little  servant  with  news  that  expelled  her  peace. 
Mrs.  Dobson  was  much  worse. 

With  anxiety  she  left  the  garden  and  the  silence  of 
her  soul,  and  hurried  to  her  grandmother's  side. 

Directly  she  entered  the  room,  the  dying  lady  turned 
to  her  a  gaze  of  wistful  inquiry,  and  smiling  with  the 
sweet  affection  of  extreme  weakness,  watched  and 
waited  for  her  to  speak. 

Anne  knelt  at  her  bedside.  "Grannie  dear,  you  are 
not  feeling  well  ?  Tell  me  what  it  is.  You  have  been 
left  too  long  alone.  Let  me  make  your  pillow  comfort- 
able, and  then  I  will  light  the  candles  and  read  to  you. 
Dear  little  grannie,  I  am  angry  with  myself  for  leav- 
ing you  alone." 

There  was  still  the  same  wistful  inquiry  in  the 
fading  eyes.  "Tell  me,  dear,"  asked  the  dying 
woman  in  a  low  voice,  speaking  with  difficulty,  "are 
you  happy  now  ?  " 

Anne  answered  the  question  with  her  lips  and  with 
her  eyes. 

Afterwards  she  said,  still  holding  the  little  lady  in 

her  embrace,  "  I  am  so  happy,  grannie  dear.    I  owe  it 

302 


A   SECOND   MARRIAGE  303 

all  to  you.  How  can  I  thank1  you?  You  have  helped 
me  to  find  the  answer  to  more  than  my  difficulty.  You 
have  helped  me  to  find  the  answer  to  all  difficulties 
and  all  questions.  From  my  earliest  years  it  has 
always  been  you  who  have  helped  me.  And  now 
you  have  given  rest  to  my  soul  and  made  the 
way  straighter  before  me.  Grannie  dear,  I  love  you 
so." 

The  face  of  the  old  lady  shone  with  love.  She  lifted 
one  of  her  feeble  hands  and  slowly  placed  it  on  Anne's 
head,  pressing  gently  the  blessing  she  could  not  utter. 

For  a  moment  they  were  silent. 

"Now  you  must  feel  better  and  happier,"  Anne 
said,  taking  the  hand  as  it  descended  and  bending  her 
lips  to  it.  "I  will  light  the  candles,  and  we  will  sit 
and  talk,  or  I  will  read  to  you." 

As  she  rose,  the  old  lady  said,  "This  is  my  Nunc 
Dimittis.  I  am  happy.  I  want  to  go  now.  Think 
what  I  shall  have  to  tell  your  father  !  " 

When  the  candles  were  lighted  she  inquired  if  the 
gardener  was  still  on  the  premises.  "I  should  like 
him  to  take  a  telegram.  I  want  your  mother  to  come. 
It  had  better  be  to-morrow.  Will  you  ask  Richard, 
too?  You  shall  decide  that.  But  your  mother  must 
come." 

Anne  wrote  the  telegram.  At  eight  o'clock  an 
answer  was  delivered.  It  announced  the  hour  of 
arrival  at  the  station.  It  was  signed  "Richard." 

Mrs.  Dobson's  last  night  on  earth  passed  almost 
without  sleep.  Anne,  who  sat  at  her  side,  would  have 
read  to  her,  but  the  old  lady  preferred  silence.  "I  am 


304  THE   CAGE 

not  unhappy,"  she  said.  "Sleep  is  not  necessary  now. 
But  you  must  rest.  I  want  you  to  sleep." 

The  faith  which  had  come  to  Anne  found  expression 
that  night  in  constant  service  to  this  friend  of  her  life. 
Every  little  act  seemed  now  to  have  a  new  signifi- 
cance. There  was  a  consecration  in  her  devotion. 
She  did  not  wish  to  sleep.  No  thought  of  the  en- 
counter with  Richard  Paton  crossed  her  mind. 
Devotion  to  this  soul  hovering  on  the  borderland  was 
a  sufficient  occupation. 

As  the  small  hours  approached  she  began  to  dread. 
The  room  struck  coldly.  The  candlelight  became 
pallid.  Once  or  twice  her  grandmother  sighed  and 
slipped  down  in  the  bed. 

Anne  lighted  the  spirit-kettle  and  poured  milk  into 
the  saucepan. 

"Do  not  trouble  about  me,"  said  Mrs.  Dobson;  "I 
shall  live  till  to-morrow." 

The  dawn  came  grey  and  chilling,  with  a  high  wind 
which  blew  up  great  cumbrous  clouds  from  the  east. 

At  seven  o'clock  Anne  drew  the  curtains  and  put 
out  the  candles. 

"Another  day,"  said  Mrs.  Dobson.  "Is  the  sun 
shining?" 

"Not  yet,  grannie  dear." 

"The  form  is  hidden,  but  the  presence  is  visible." 

"It  will  soon  be  bright." 

"I  believe  in  a  God  Whom  I  shall  see.  He  has 
given  form  to  all  things,  even  to  light.  For  our  sakes 
He  will  give  form  to  Himself.  We  shall  awake  with 
His  likeness  and  be  satisfied." 


A   SECOND    MARRIAGE  305 

Anne  came  to  the  bed,  bent  over  her  grandmother, 
and  kissed  her.  "Grannie  dear,  we  are  nearer  now  to 
each  other  than  we  have  ever  been." 

"There  must  be  a  blessing;  the  Love  was  so  great." 
For  a  moment  the  fading  eyes  brightened.  "I  am  not 
doubting ;  I  am  not  afraid ;  but  the  words  come  back, 
'  So  much  to  do,  so  little  done ; '  I  wish  I  had  been 
less  selfish." 

"But  for  you,  grannie  dear,  I,  for  one,  should  be  in 
the  darkness  and  on  the  edge  of  the  precipice." 

"We  must  believe  in  forgiveness," 

Very  gently  Anne  led  the  poor,  failing  mind  away 
from  thoughts  of  wasted  hours  and  lost  opportunities 
to  the  contemplation  of  infinite  love. 

While  she  was  speaking  a  cloud  parted  in  the  east, 
and  for  a  moment  the  room  was  bright  with  sunshine. 

The  grandmother  turned  to  her  and  said,  "You 
make  me  happy;  because  I  know  you  understand." 

Early  in  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Ainslie  arrived  with 
Richard  Paton. 

The  wind  was  blowing  hard,  the  sky  was  threaten- 
ing, the  troubled  river  gave  a  sense  of  coldness  and 
melancholy  to  the  grey  landscape. 

Anne  met  them  at  the  gate. 

She  was  calm  and  self-possessed,  but  with  a  new 
serenity  of  spirit. 

There  was  no  need  for  her  to  think  how  she  should 
greet  her  husband  or  to  rehearse  what  she  should  say 
to  him.  It  sufficed  that  she  went  to  him.  She  was 
impelled  by  a  noble  conviction  of  duty,  she  was  upheld 
by  an  invisible  power. 


306  THE   CAGE 

So  serene  was  her  soul  at  this  difficult  moment  of 
her  life  that  the  shadow  thrown  for  a  moment  by  her 
mother  across  the  road  of  duty  did  not  chill  her  or 
deject  her  courage. 

Mrs.  Ainslie  might  have  made  a  weaker  nature 
repent  and  take  fresh  counsel  with  herself. 

This  one  woman,  approaching  the  cottage,  was  the 
life  to  which  Anne  was  going  back.  She  represented 
London ;  she  was  Plutocracy ;  she  was  Vanity  Fair ; 
she  was  Existence — the  existence  of  the  voluptuous 
self-indulgent  mob  of  wealth. 

Let  us  for  a  moment  look  at  her,  that  we  may  under- 
stand Anne's  destiny. 

This  widow,  who  was  approaching  sixty,  was  as 
much  in  love  with  life  as  a  girl  of  sixteen.  By  life 
she  understood  public  appearances,  shop  windows, 
high  living,  constant  excitement,  and  parade  with  the 
paraders.  She  was  one  of  those  contemporary  women 
who  justify  the  boast  that  now-a-days  no  one  is  old. 
It  was  not  only  the  Beauty  Doctor  who  kept  her 
young;  her  delight  in  the  world  preserved  her 
animation.  She  was  not  old.  In  the  same  way,  she 
was  not  good.  She  did  not  deny  the  laws  of  God; 
she  snubbed  them. 

She  said  her  prayers  every  night,  with  her  hair  on 
the  dressing-table,  her  face  and  hands  anointed  with 
complexion-cream.  She  had  done  nothing  to  help 
man,  woman,  child,  or  dumb  animal ;  she  had  thought 
nothing  noble,  been  conscious  of  no  generous  emotion, 
felt  no  compassion  for  suffering  or  pain,  encouraged 
no  one  fighting  against  sin,  ignorance,  or  disease; 


A   SECOND    MARRIAGE  307 

worse  still,  she  had  experienced  not  a  moment's 
misgiving  of  conscience,  not  a  second's  dread  of 
God;  but  she  said  her  prayers.  She  never  missed 
saying  her  prayers,  even  if  the  card-table  had  kept 
her  up  till  two  or  three  in  the  morning ;  in  the  same 
manner,  she  never  missed  brushing  her  teeth  the 
last  thing  at  night.  Her  prayers  were  a  part  of  her 
toilet. 

A  nature  like  this  is  severely  orthodox  in  religion, 
politics,  and  conduct.  It  would  alter  nothing,  for  fear 
of  discomfort.  Mrs.  Ainslie  was  satisfied  with  the 
world ;  she  was  satisfied  with  its  imperfections,  which 
flattered  her.  Her  orthodoxy  was  consistent.  She 
went  to  church ;  and  she  would  not  walk  through  the 
Park  with  a  shabby  person.  She  rendered  to  God  the 
things  that  were  God's,  and  to  Caesar  the  things  that 
were  Cassar's.  She  expressed  indignation  at  the  re- 
velations of  the  divorce  court,  and  she  was  grateful  for 
these  scandals,  which  confirmed  her  delusion  that  she 
was  virtuous ;  she  said  that  newspapers  which  exposed 
these  things  performed  a  national  service;  she  meant 
that  they  canonized  indifference.  Her  idea  of  the 
wedding-garment  was  the  last  fashion  from  Paris. 

Mrs.  Ainslie,  in  a  word,  was  a  criminal. 

Her  religious  conformity  was  a  frightful  blasphemy. 
Her  indifference  to  the  sufferings  of  humanity  was  a 
sin.  Her  profitless  and  self-indulgent  existence  in  a 
world  crowded  with  clamorous  pity  was  a  crime. 

She  not  only  attempted  to  hoodwink  the  Almighty, 
she  misrepresented  Him.  Her  servants,  seeing  her 
go  to  church,  said  that  they  wanted  nothing  to  do 
x  2 


3o8  THE   CAGE 

with  religion.  The  poor,  watching  her  enter,  felt 
themselves  beneath  the  notice  of  God.  Young  girls, 
beginning  their  life  in  London,  imagined,  from  her 
presence  at  the  altar,  that  religion  was  a  form. 

She  was  virtuous,  respectable,  cheerful,  and  in- 
capable of  cruelty,  meanness,  or  revenge.  But  she 
was  an  enemy  of  the  human  race. 

Perhaps  she  was  too  happy,  too  contented,  too 
cheerful. 

"  Quand  le  riche  rit,  le  diable  rit  avec  lui ; 
Quand  le  riche  pleure,  le  diable  pleure  aussi." 

Mrs.  Ainslie  had  no  misgiving.    She  never  wept. 

What  was  the  impression  made  by  the  challeng- 
ing effrontery  of  this  old  woman  of  fashion  on  the 
soul  of  Anne  fresh  from  the  pure  ablution  of  new- 
birth  ? 

The  daughter  regarded  the  mother,  and  pitied  her. 
There  was  no  fear  in  her  heart,  and  no  judgment. 
She  thought  how  strange  it  was  that  this  mother 
should  be  the  daughter  of  the  sweet  grandmother. 
She  hoped  that  time  and  God's  mercy  would  change 
the  harsh  tone  of  her  character.  She  considered  that 
once  the  mother  must  have  been  different,  for  she  had 
been  the  wife  of  her  father.  It  came  home  to  her  how 
the  mere  vulgarity  of  the  world  can  debase  a  mind 
and  ruin  a  soul. 

Mrs.  Ainslie  had  been  put  out  a  little  by  the  walk 
across  a  rough  field,  with  a  great,  scornful  wind 
derisive  at  her  back.  The  plumes  of  her  immense  hat 
were  disarranged ;  the  hat  itself,  and  with  the  hat  the 
hair,  had  suffered  a  severe  tilt.  Her  rustling  gar- 


A   SECOND   MARRIAGE  309 

mentis,  too,  wore  a  blown-about  appearance,  discon- 
certing to  an  elderly  and  orthodox  lady  of  fashion. 

She  exclaimed  at  the  cottage,  before  she  inquired 
for  her  mother. 

When  she  learned  that  the  end  was  close  at  hand 
she  became  very  solemn,  but  blamed  Anne  because 
she  had  not  telegraphed  before.  "  I  must  go  to  her  at 
once,"  she  said;  "my  place  is  at  her  side." 

Anne,  as  soon  as  she  had  seen  her  grandmother 
through  this  difficult  greeting,  returned  to  Richard 
Paton,  who  was  standing  in  the  drawing-room,  wait- 
ing for  her. 

He  was  kind  and  understanding.  He  expressed 
sympathy  with  her  in  the  sorrow  that  was  so  close  and 
near.  Anne  was  touched  by  his  goodness. 

When  they  were  seated  he  admired  her  drawing- 
room,  smiled  at  the  smallness  of  the  little  house,  but 
acknowledged  its  charm.  "One  sees  your  taste  in  the 
room  and  your  character  in  the  place.  It  is  very  quiet 
and  restful.  It  is  nature  in  a  kind  mood." 

He  avoided  saying  anything  that  was  intimate  to 
their  relations. 

Presently  he  said  to  her,  "I  had  a  surprise  in 
Borhaven.  We  stopped  at  the  hotel  to  leave  our 
luggage,  and  as  I  got  out  of  our  cab  a  fly  drew  up 
behind  us,  and  out  of  it  got  Lord  Arthur  Gorham.  I 
had  seen  him  on  the  station  at  Liverpool  Street,  and 
I  remembered  that  when  I  saw  you  off — do  you  recall 
it? — he  was  travelling  by  the  same  train  as  you.  But 
that  is  not  my  surprise.  As  I  entered  the  hotel,  out 
came  a  little,  shabby  old  fellow,  something  soldier- 


310  THE   CAGE 

like  about  him,  and — who  do  you  think?  Hugh 
Napier  !  " 

"He  has  been  here,**  she  said. 

"I  remembered  afterwards  about  Ramsay  M'Gavin. 
But  it  was  a  tremendous  surprise  for  me,  and  for  him, 
too.  He  started  as  if  he  had  seen  a  ghost.  He 
looks  ever  so  much  older,  and  harried,  as  if  some- 
thing had  gone  wrong  with  him.  I  hope  to  heaven  he 
is  not  mixing  himself  up  with  that  fellow  Gorham. 
If  you  see  him,  warn  him.  The  man  is  really  bad. 
He'll  wear  the  stamp  of  the  prison  to  his  dying  day. 
Those  people  never  change.  There's  a  kink  in  the 
natures  which  cannot  be  straightened.  When  I  came 
out  from  the  hotel  he  was  walking  up  the  cliff  with  his 
arm  through  Napier's." 

Anne  bore  all  this  with  composure.  But  she  was 
conscious  of  a  great  compassion  for  Hugh  Napier. 
His  continued  presence  in  Borhaven,  however,  did 
not  disturb  her.  She  felt  that  she  could  see  him  and 
confirm  her  decision. 

After  some  moments  Mrs.  Ainslie  was  heard  de- 
scending the  stairs;  Anne  went  to  the  door  to  greet 
her.  There  was  a  set  and  rigid  look  in  the  mother's 
face,  an  expression  almost  of  awe.  "She  would  like 
you  both  to  go  up,"  she  said  in  a  strained  voice,  and 
went  to  the  window,  turning  her  back  upon  them, 
standing  there  with  her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth. 

As  they  went  up  the  stairs,  Richard  Paton  said  to 
Anne,  "  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  say  what  I  ought  to 
say,  and  do  what  I  ought  to  do;  but  I  am  inexperi- 
enced in  these  sorrowful  things.  Don't  think  badly 


A   SECOND    MARRIAGE  311 

of  me  if  I  blunder.  It  won't  be  lack  of  feeling,  but 
lack  of  experience." 

"You  have  nothing  to  fear,"  she  said  encourag- 
ingly, and  at  the  door  she  gave  him  her  hand. 

The  grandmother  was  lying  with  her  eyes  closed. 
She  was  perfectly  motionless.  It  was  difficult  to  see 
that  she  breathed. 

Paton  was  struck  dumb  by  the  terribly  wasted  and 
shrunken  appearance  of  this  old  lady,  who  had  been 
once  so  vivacious,  lively,  and  ironical.  Anne  had 
grown  accustomed  to  the  gradual  dwindling  of  vitality, 
and  did  not  realize  the  change. 

"Anne?    Is  that  you?"    The  eyes  did  not  open. 

"Yes,  grannie  dear." 

-"And  Richard?" 

"Yes;  he  has  come  to  see  you." 

The  dying  woman  opened  her  eyes.  "Richard?" 
she  inquired.  "I  cannot  see  clearly.  Come  nearer  to 
me.  Both  of  you.  Richard,  I  hope  you  are  well  and 
happy.  Let  me  take  your  hand.  Anne,  where  is 
yours  ?  Have  I  got  them  both  ?  There,  they  are 
joined;  joined  again.  Richard,  be  very  good  to  her. 
I  am  going  to  her  father.  You  must  love  each  other. 
Life  is  but  a  shadow.  It  passes  away.  Try  to  do 
something,  both  of  you,  to  make  the  world  more 
worthy  of  God's  love.  Will  you  try  ?  I  will  tell  Dr. 
Ainslie.  There;  I  won't  keep  you.  What  is  that 
noise?  Richard,  are  you  crying?  Don't  cry  for  me. 
Why  should  you  cry  ?  It  is  only  a  sleep,  dear 
Richard.  We  shall  meet  again.  It  will  be  well  for 
us.  I  am  neither  afraid  nor  unwilling.  Now  that  I 


312  THE   CAGE 

know  my  darling  is  safe  I  am  glad  to  go.  Take  care 
of  her.  Be  very  good  to  her.  Love  and  cherish  her 
all  your  life  long." 

Anne  was  kneeling  at  the  bedside,  and  Paton, 
mastering  his  emotions,  knelt  at  her  side. 

"Mrs.  Dobson,"  he  said  gently,  "I  want  you  to 
know  that  I  am  sorry  for  the  past — sorry  with  all  my 
heart." 

"  God  hears  you  say  that." 

"And  I  promise  you  that  I  will  shield  and  love  and 
honour  my  wife,  if  she  will  come  back  to  me,  till  the 
end  of  my  life."  , 

"I  have  come  back,"  Anne  said,  and  took  his  hand 
and  held  it. 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  room  but  the  breathing 
of  the  dying  lady,  which  began  to  be  laboured. 

Presently  they  heard  her  say  in  a  whisper,  which 
died  away  in  a  sigh — 

"  Nothing  in  my  hand  I  bring, 
Simply  to  Thy  Cross  I  cling." 

On  that  sigh  her  soul  passed  into  the  Light. 


THE  END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FAd 


A     000129290     3 


